The Sadder But Wiser Girl
by the classicist
Summary: London 1927. Edith Crawley isn't a naive young girl anymore - she's an independent woman, a writer, a mother. Michael Gregson is a distant memory and Edith is managing just fine, thank you very much - until, that is, an old and rather familiar face makes a sudden reappearance, setting off a startling chain of events for everyone concerned.
1. Chapter 1

**London, 1927**

"Miss Crawley? Mr Edmonds will see you now." Miss Shaw's voice was difficult to hear over the clack of typewriters and the talk of the other employees, but her disapproval, as ever, was clearly audible.

Nervously, Edith rose and smoothed out her skirt, raising her other hand to check her hair. It was not a matter of routine for her to be called to Mr Edmonds' office in the middle of the week. Her column appeared on Fridays, and he would meet with her on Mondays to discuss its reception. A summons on a Thursday was highly unusual, not to say inconvenient. The letter had arrived only that morning, following hot on the heels of her young niece Sybil, absent from school with a severe summer cold. Edith had been forced to wait for Tom to arrive home from the office at lunchtime and collect his daughter - and of course he had been late. Then she had had to leave Elinor with Helen at short notice, Signora Rossi being in attendance at her daughter's wedding, and since Edith had far better things than luxuries such as taxi cabs on which to spend her relatively small income, she had had to catch the bus part of the way and run the rest. Thus, her expression upon entering her employer's office was one of mingled anxiety and harassment.

The office was wide and spacious, but seemed rather less so, owing to the huge piles of paper - copies of the latest editions of competing newspapers and prospective articles - which littered the floor and almost every other available surface. Edmonds himself, a plump grey-haired man in his fifties with an admirable moustache, sat behind his desk, smoking a cigarette, but he rose at her entrance. "Ah, Lady Edith, good afternoon." Unlike his secretary, Mr Edmonds was more than aware of Edith's background, but always seemed to express a faint confusion as to how to treat her. He was the epitome of the eager newspaperman, always on the lookout for a story, with a keen eye for literary talent. When writing at the_ Sketch_ had no longer been… viable, he had been the first to offer her a position at the _Post_, first as an occasional contributor, and later as a regular columnist. He opened his cigarette case and offered it to her, but Edith declined half-smilingly.

"You wanted to see me, Mr Edmonds?"

Her editor coughed awkwardly and Edith sensed the first hints of trouble brewing. "Was there a problem with my last article?" she persisted. Sometimes, letters of complaint would flow in slowly, meaning that an article that had appeared a success at first could later be chalked up as a mistake. Her outspokenness on many subjects had made her one of the _Post_'s most controversial writers, but she could not see how her latest work - an ebullient effusion of praise for Mr Lindbergh's transatlantic flight from New York to Paris - could have occasioned any complaints. Edmonds shook his head. "Not at all. I like a woman who says what she thinks and so, it seems, do the readership."

Edith ducked her head, blushing. Edmonds was married and happily so, but that did not stop him from allowing himself a little gentle, harmless flirtation with her every now and again. "Thank you, sir."

He waved his hand impatiently. "Not at all. But, look here, Lady Edith… Damn it all, this _is_ awkward." He stood and turned to pace the office, a deep frown creasing his brow. "My secretary saw you yesterday on her way home. She says you were accompanied by a little girl and that the little girl called you her mother." Edith suppressed a sigh. She might, she realised dispassionately, have known. Miss Shaw had never taken to her and would, of course, jump at any chance to do her a bad turn.

He spun with uncharacteristic decisiveness to face her. "Is this true, Lady Edith?"

Edith swallowed, hoping that this was not leading to where she had a horrid suspicion it was. She could lie; she had grown good at that, hateful though it might be. Edmonds might even be able to persuade himself that he believed her. At last, however, she bowed her head and murmured, "Yes, I'm afraid it is." Immediately, she hated herself - such a response might imply that she was unhappy to be a mother, and that wasn't true at all. Whatever the circumstances of Elinor's birth, Edith would not have been without her for all the tea in China.

Edmonds sighed and passed a hand over his face. "And you are unmarried?"

Edith smiled bitterly. Michael had not been able to offer her marriage and she did not believe, having had several years now to think about it, that he would have wished to even if it _had_ been in his power. And Anthony… A tremor crossed her face and she swallowed, glad that her head was still bent down. How tremendously silly it was of her, to still mourn a thing that had never been attained!

She chanced a glance upwards to find Edmonds watching her closely, and nodded shortly. He closed his eyes in a brief gesture of disappointment. "I'm sorry, Lady Edith… You know what I'm going to say?"

Edith nodded again, dully this time, feeling a sinking sensation in her stomach. "Of course. If the readership finds out, I doubt that my clever articles will be enough to distract their attention from the irregularities of my personal life. I quite understand, Mr Edmonds."

"I _am_ sorry," he repeated and he looked it, too. Edith couldn't be angry with him - Mr Edmonds was, at the end of the day, a businessman and it wasn't his fault that society was hypocritical and cruel. "Send out a final article on Friday, as usual, stating your departure from the paper. I shall pay you for this month, of course - and for the next two. I'll be sad to see you go, but…" He trailed off, and disguised his embarrassment by turning away to stub out his cigarette. "Perhaps I could ask around for you? I have contacts at other papers - there may be work available."

Edith smiled weakly and shook his hand. "Thank you, Mr Edmonds. You've been very kind. I would appreciate that very much." But she knew that there was very little hope; any newspaper magnate worth his salt would ask Edmonds why his star columnist was leaving and her employer - _former_ employer - was a terrible liar. No one would be eager to take on someone with Edith's baggage, no matter her talents as a writer.

But things were not entirely hopeless, she tried to persuade herself as she left the office of the _Post_ for perhaps the last time. Five years ago, the prospect of unemployment - or, indeed, of any form of employment at all - would have terrified her, but things had changed now. She was a mother, with a flat and a life of her own - and she had had plenty of knocks in the intervening years to toughen her up. Edith silently took stock of her finances. She still had some money saved from the French translation job she had done for a friend of Tom's last month; Sybil had been wrong - at least one of the two skills she had acquired from their governess had been useful. If the worst came to the worst, she could always find similar work again, and since taking a course in shorthand and typing last year, most types of secretarial work were open to her as well. Perhaps Tom would know of any openings anywhere - she would ask him the next time they saw each other. At least she had no need to worry about food; Signora Rossi, her matronly Italian neighbour, had arrived in London three years ago with an adolescent daughter in tow and very little English. Edith had supplied the deficiency for both of them, and received payment in kind - Italian lessons for Elinor and a kind friend and sometimes-housekeeper for herself.

They would manage, she decided. Above all, Elinor _must not know_. Four and three-quarters was too young to be worrying about family finances, no matter how grown up her daughter tried to be, or how honest Edith usually attempted to be with her. She smiled almost grimly. When she got home, she would treat Elinor to tea out - a last luxury before the hard work of economising and job-searching began.

There was, at least, a roof over their heads. The little flat in Bloomsbury had been a marvellous find; Michael had rented it for them, his limited conscience at least recognising that it would be in extremely bad taste to bed his mistress in the very house to which he had brought his wife as a new bride. There were two bedrooms, a little kitchen and bathroom and a sitting room which doubled up as Edith's study in the daytime and the dining room at night. When he had left, Edith had taken over the lease herself, reasoning that it would be far easier to deal with the ghost of Michael than to find another flat as cheap and as suitable as this one.

She unlocked the flat door, feet aching and cheeks flushed from the brisk walk, and fixed a contented smile on her face, ready for the inevitable noisy welcome she would receive. She was not disappointed - her small, blonde daughter at once abandoned the pencils and paper she had been busying herself with and ran to hug her, little hands clutching around Edith's waist. "Mummy!" Easily, her mother swung her up to balance her on one hip and kiss her cheek. "Hello, my darling. Have you been good for Helen?"

Edith's friend, Helen Worth poked her head out of the kitchen. "As good as gold," she reassured Edith. "We've been drawing, haven't we, Elinor?" Edith was her daughter close, and felt it when Elinor nodded her head enthusiastically, brushing her reddish-gold curls against her mother's cheek. "I've drawn you a picture, Mummy," Elinor explained seriously.

"Really? For me? May I see?" Edith inquired. Elinor nodded and squirmed to be put down. Her mother obliged and wandered over to Elinor's makeshift desk to observe the drawing. While most young girls her age would draw houses, or animals, Elinor had, in her own inimitable style, made a somewhat clumsy attempt at drawing Edith's typewriter. Edith chuckled and brushed a hand over Elinor's curly head. "Well," she smiled, "I think that that rather deserves a treat, don't you? Why don't you go and wash your hands and find your coat, and then we can go out for tea?"

The delight on Elinor's face was enough to wash away any guilt Edith might have felt at the admittedly needless expense. She rushed out of the room like a tiny whirlwind and Edith turned to face Helen, the smile fading from her face. Helen watched her anxiously. "What did Mr Edmonds want?" she asked.

Edith sat down with a sigh of relief. "He'd found out about Elinor." She would have continued, but Helen's all-too-quick gasp of sympathy and understanding reassured Edith that any further explanation would be superfluous. "What will you do?" Helen murmured after a while, and Edith smiled to realise that her friend was far more worried about her situation than she herself was.

Helen lived on the ground floor, in a flat which doubled as a studio; she was a photographer and thus, while used to relying on her own wits to make a living, was entirely unused to dealing with employers and the attendant miseries which a reliance on them could bring. Edith shrugged. "Look around for something else, I suppose. I'm not in dire straits just yet, don't worry. I've some money saved and there's always secretarial work."

Helen nodded. "Well, I've got old Sir Jeremy Dent's daughter booked in for a sitting tomorrow morning. He may have got rid of another secretary by now - they never last more than three months. I could drop it into the conversation, if you liked."

Edith laughed, although the prospect of becoming a secretary to the impossibly fastidious and unmanageable Sir Jeremy, a noted member of the Royal Society, was not in the least bit appealing. "Thank you. But you know - " They were interrupted by the sound of Elinor's return, and soon mother and daughter were wandering along the street, heading towards the nearest Lyons' teashop. But an idea had struck Edith while she had been talking to Helen. Sitting in the top drawer of her desk was a half-finished manuscript for a novel - a thrilling mystery, a country house, a dashing baronet… Perhaps now was the time to set her mind to completing it.

Edith smiled. No, things were far from hopeless.

* * *

**A/N: Hi. I think this fic needs a little bit of an explanation, so here goes...**

**When I first started writing this, it didn't occur to me that it was turning into a social commentary until it was already well on the way there. I didn't write it with the intention of forcing these characters - whom I love very much - into unlikely, unrealistic situations, and I hope that I haven't. I merely wrote what I felt could be Edith's life, a few years on from the failed wedding to Anthony. And slowly, I realised that, even though this is just a fanfic, I was so interested in it because the circumstances I was writing about were ones to which I could relate.**

**Of course, things have got better now. Single parents are not, for the most part, turned into social pariahs - whatever the problems with existing views on them. A family is unlikely to disown their daughter for getting pregnant out of marriage, unless they are extremely strict. A single parent is less likely to be viewed as immoral or sexually deviant than they used to be. But there is still some way to go.**

**And that's why I'd like to dedicate this story to single parents everywhere. They are wonderful, under appreciated, brilliant people. They go out to work; they run their households; they care for their daughters and sons and try to raise them to be well-rounded, productive adults; they wreck their health, sanity and social lives for the sake of their children - and they do it for the most part unthanked and uncomplaining. If they're lucky, they have brilliant support networks of family, friends and neighbours to help them through the difficult times. But not all of them ****_are_**** lucky.**

**To the majority of society, they are a problem to be solved - stereotyped as useless, incompetent and scrounging. To their little (and not so little) ones, they are heroes - endlessly cheerful, fiercely protective and determined that their children will not feel the bite of their sometimes difficult circumstances.**

**My own mother is one of these heroes.**

**This story isn't going to be a glorification of single-parenthood; it's going to show it honestly, with all its joys and troubles. But I suppose what I really want to say here is very simple: parenting, done properly, is always going to be tough. Doing it alone is ten times tougher.**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Thank you for the wonderful reviews for the last chapter, and for the follows/favourites too! And now, a brief appearance from Anthony (and 'Dregson' - sorry Baron!)**

* * *

_"It was only a dance, Michael! For God's sake!" Edith strode along the street, short dress flapping around her knees. She had never been so furious in all her life - for him to actually pull her out of the club, and just when she was beginning to enjoy herself for the first time in what seemed like months! Their first outing since Elinor had been born and he had spoilt it completely!_

_Michael was angry too, but Edith didn't care. He was barely keeping pace with her but his voice was loud enough to carry. At least, Edith thought fleetingly, it was late enough that their quarrel would not be observed by casual passers-by, but early enough that they would not become an object of ridicule for drunken party-goers on their way home. "How do you think it makes me feel, Edith - to watch you flaunting yourself with other men?"_

_She stopped, turning to face him, and laughed, harshly. "'Other men'? It was one dance with Archie Middleton. I _live_ with you, Michael!"_

_"Yes, and we both know that the only reason you do is because Anthony bloody Strallan stood you up at the altar."_

_It was a low blow and they both knew it. Edith was white with fury. Michael knew how much it hurt her to bring up Anthony - _Sir_ Anthony - and it had become his favourite barb in arguments. "How dare - " she began, but Michael let out a noise of exasperation and snapped, "I dare because you're still in love with him!"_

_"You're mad!" Edith told him flatly. "Would I be sleeping with you if I were in love with another man? Would I have a daughter with you?"_

_Suddenly he grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him. He was breathing heavily, eyes almost wild in their anger. His voice was equally passion-filled. "You think you can look down your nose at me, with your fancy family and their big estate - but I will _not_ be second best, Edith, do you understand me?"_

_His hand squeezed her elbow painfully and Edith winced. "Michael! Michael, stop it - you're hurting me!"_

_And then the anger drained from him and his eyes widened in shock. He released her arm and stepped slowly away, shaking his head. "Edith… God, I am so sorry." Edith said nothing. Michael sighed and rubbed a hand across his eyes. When he looked at her again, they were filled with that almost vulnerable adoration that had so perfectly characterised their early relationship. Even now, it had a strange power over her. "I just… I love you so much, and I can't bear to think that you might not feel the same way, darling."_

_Shakily, she smoothed out the folds of her coat. "I do, Michael. I _do_. But you have to trust me." Gently, she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and half-smiled, pushing the incident away from her mind. It had been a long day, for both of them; Michael was having trouble with his sub-editor; Elinor, and consequently her parents, hadn't slept well the night before… "Anyway, Archie Middleton is a terrible dancer. He stepped on my feet about ten times in the space of three minutes."_

_Michael chuckled, all signs of his outburst vanished behind his usual charming veneer, and wrapped his arm around her waist. It was like a vice…_

Edith shot up in bed, throwing the suffocating covers away from her, shaking. It had been a long time since she had dreamt of Michael - what had prompted that particular memory to enter her subconscious this evening? Had it been thinking of him in Mr Edmonds' office earlier? Slowly, she inhaled and exhaled, cleansing her mind of him. _That _was what life would have been like for her and Elinor, every day, had Michael bothered to stay. It would probably have been even worse.

She was struck with a sudden need to see her daughter. Edith slipped from her bed and padded next door. The door was half-open and she peered round it, not wanting to wake Elinor. Her daughter lay curled up on her side, facing the door, one arm thrown wide across the pillow, the other clutching a well-loved stuffed bear by the name of Edward Teddington - a present from her mother - to her chest. Edith smiled, feeling calmer. Michael was the past, Elinor was the future. Holding onto that thought, Edith returned to bed.

* * *

London was unusually cold and grey four days later when Edith ventured out of the flat to post a letter. A letter from Matthew had arrived the day before - his usual, awkward inquiry as to her health and Elinor's, the repetition of an offer of help made every month for the past seven years, should it be needed… Edith shook her head inwardly as she thought of it. How sweet her brother-in-law was - how sweet _both_ her brothers-in-law were! Matthew was too honourable to accept her casting-off from the family without complaint, but he was quieter in his rebellion than Tom had been. Edith sometimes wondered if Mary knew of his letters and, if she did, what she said about them. It amused her, to imagine Mary's hypothetical disapproval and Matthew's calm, reasoned attempts to justify himself. She always reassured him, as she had done this time, that she and Elinor were well and managing - she could do nothing else - but his writing comforted her; it linked her back to a simpler, if less fulfilling past.

She made no secret of the letters, or of the fact that she had a whole family in Yorkshire whom her daughter would probably never meet, to Elinor. As of yet, Elinor didn't seem particularly bothered by it - when one had an uncle as boisterous as Tom and a cousin such as Sybbie, who was almost a sister to Elinor, and a forward-thinking American great-grandmother who sent one presents and letters, the lack of other family members was not a source of pain. Edith was relieved by this; it had scared her to bring a child into the world without the comfort and security of Downton at her back and when Michael had left, it had been even more terrifying. But Tom had rallied round in those first few weeks and they had managed. And then Signora Rossi had arrived and everything had fallen into place. Edith had created a family, a new, loving, if rather odd family for herself and for Elinor and she was proud of it.

Life was different. Different to how she had imagined it, growing up with Mary and Sybil, and planning the course of the years. She had Elinor and her work and she was content. She hardly ever thought of Michael and, as for Anthony - why, it had been the first time in several months when her mind had turned to him in Mr Edmonds' office! She pushed the single letter into the postbox and turned away, caught up in her thoughts.

And so it was that she did not notice the tall, older gentleman in her path until she had crashed into his left arm. He turned, an apology already forming on his lips and then drew up, stunned. Edith did the same. She had not expected to see him again after that horrid day in the church; occasionally she had been able to convince herself that she did not _want_ to see him again.

"Lady Edith!" he greeted her, but there was embarrassment and reserve in his tone and eyes, however much he might try to steady that boyish grin. He was the same as ever, dressed smartly and plainly, with no hint of stubble along his sharp jawline; his eyes were kind and intelligent, although containing not a little fear at the present moment. His hair was perhaps a little thinner, but he had lost none of his imposing height in the past seven years - Edith had to crane her neck slightly still to meet his eyes.

But she did not smile back. In these years of hardship and responsibility, her first reaction to the unexpected had become reserve. Her first reaction to thoughts of _him_ had been to push them away, hard and fast. But she could not do that when he was standing there in front of her, looking so solid and alive. "Hello, Sir Anthony," she managed.

They could have passed on, left each other at that, allowed their days to go on as usual, but Anthony did not move. "How… how do you do?" _Damn him! Damn him and his hateful wish to never be on bad terms with anyone! _He despised quarrels, always had done, and this was a quarrel of such magnitude that it could never be smoothed over, not even by him. The lie passed her lips easily - cruel and harsh. "Very well. Never better, in fact."

"Yes," he smiled awkwardly. "You are a writer now, I understand. I read your column with great interest, while I was abroad."

_Oh, how nice for you!_ Edith thought grimly. _Where did you go, while I was crying myself to sleep and wondering what it was about me that made the prospect of being my husband so intolerable? Did you go on our honeymoon?_ But she could say none of this, not on a busy London street to a man she had last seen running away from her down a church aisle. "How kind," she replied instead.

He sighed at her non-committal answers. "I am glad to know that you are happy," he explained carefully.

Her eyes flashed angrily, and suddenly there was feeling, breaking through the icy wall between them. She could bear much, but not this - not this self-righteous contentment in being supposedly proved correct in one's utterly _incorrect_ sentiments. "_Happy_? _Happy_ that you humiliated me in front of my family and friends because you were too _cowardly_ to marry me?"

He flinched. The accusation of cowardice had struck deep. _Good!_ she thought, with a sudden flash of spite. "Edith - " he tried.

She didn't want to listen to him anymore. What right did he have to ask for her attention? What right did he have to look so sophisticated and handsome and _unchanged?_ "Excuse me, Sir Anthony. I'm rather busy." And she pushed past him, and vanished, leaving him to stand alone in the middle of the pavement, watching her red-gold hair and green cloche bob determinedly out of sight.

Later that morning, Edith sat at her desk, staring at the handwritten manuscript before her. It wasn't bad. It had been begun a long time ago, of course, before Anthony had left her, before she had left Downton, before she had met Michael. She could recognise Anthony in every word - her dashing baronet, the hero of her story, was all him. Her appetite for finishing the novel had dissipated somewhat; it hadn't been nice to see him like that, with no warning. She had persuaded herself she never wanted to see him again, and it was most unsatisfactory to discover that one had been wrong in such a conviction.

Suddenly, she was angry. Why should Anthony spoil what was promising to be a very pleasant piece of work? He had spoiled too much already. Picking up her pen, Edith set firmly to work.

* * *

Anthony Strallan was at that moment pacing the study of his London residence. Figgins, his old and loyal butler, watched with concern. He hadn't seen the master so agitated since that day seven years ago when he had rushed in alone from the church and given orders for his luggage to be packed for a lengthy journey to the Continent. Had Figgins not been a consummate professional, he might have asked Sir Anthony what the matter was. Inwardly he sighed, resigned. There was nothing for it but to wait; if it was something demanding his attention, the master would doubtless inform him soon enough. Figgins collected the untouched tea tray from the desk, frowning deeply at it. Mrs Cox would not be pleased, to know that the master had gone hungry. "Will that be all, sir?"

Sir Anthony twitched around, startled. He had clearly forgotten Figgins' presence. "What? Oh, yes, thank you Figgins. Please tell Mrs Cox that I shall dine at my club this evening." Yet another reason for her to take umbrage, then. Mrs Cox was a wonderful woman and a wonderful cook, but she was pricklier than a hedgehog which had rolled backwards through a holly bush.

Figgins' face, of course, showed none of this. He inclined his head primly and said, "Very good, sir."

Anthony waited until the door had closed firmly behind Figgins, and then reached for the telephone on his desk. "Hello, operator? I'd like to place a call to the offices of the _Daily Post_."


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: This was an extremely satisfying chapter to write... a nice Edith and Elinor interlude. But never fear - Anthony will be back shortly.**

* * *

After a very satisfactory day spent with her typewriter, Edith was beginning to regain her equilibrium. It was just as well, for another problem was about to rear its ugly head. Elinor was very quiet over dinner that night. This was an extremely unusual situation; normally it was practically impossible to get a word in edgeways with her. She was toying with her food, too, barely having touched her plateful of rabbit stew. Edith had cooked - was it really that bad, she wondered? She frowned and set down her knife and fork. "Are you alright, Elinor?" It seemed odd to many people that Edith never shortened her daughter's name to the affectionate 'Ellie' by which she was known to her uncle and older cousin, but her affection was expressed in different ways.

Elinor shrugged, scuffing her feet against her chair legs. At last, she said, "Ruby Adams says her mummy says it's wrong that you and my daddy don't live together." It took a moment for her mother to place the name, and then it came to her - the Adamses lived in one of the houses opposite the Bransons, and Elinor and Sybbie often played with the children. Mrs Adams was a plump and matronly woman, who always seemed to be either pregnant or burdened with a small baby, and always screeching at one or another of her older offspring. Tom half-jokingly called her 'the banshee.'

Her eyes widened. _Well!_ She had known, deep down, that the day would come when Elinor would be subjected to the same hurtful slurs and disparaging comments that she herself had dealt with on a daily basis, but she had rather hoped that it would not come so soon. She couldn't think how the children had got on to such a subject, and made a mental note to warn Tom of it the next time they saw each other; perhaps they could have a quiet word with Ruby's mother. Although, from what she knew of Mrs Adams, 'quiet' seemed unlikely. At last, she replied, "It isn't wrong. It just… doesn't happen very often." She tried to keep her tone light; the last thing she needed was for Elinor to become preoccupied by this!

"Why?" Elinor asked plaintively. Edith wasn't sure if she was querying the perceived wrongness of their situation, or the separation of her parents, but if this was going to be done, then it had to be done properly. "Well," she replied carefully, "lots of people get married before they have children. You were… rather a surprise, my darling, and your daddy and I didn't get married."

"Why not?" To explain the exact nature of 'surprises' such as Elinor had been would be taking it a little too far at present, Edith thought. But it was really very simple to explain why she and Michael had not married. "Because your daddy was already married, to someone else," she replied matter-of-factly, just as she would have done if Elinor had asked why she had to go bed at a certain time, or why Signora Rossi scolded her cat for bringing dead mice into the kitchen. Edith had found that very often, a calm tone and a sensible way of speaking was the key to reassuring children about complex ideas. It also saved much time and effort which would otherwise have been spent on fruitless quarrels; if one sounded sure of one's own decisions, then they would be far less likely to be questioned. If only she had known this as a young girl living at Downton!

Elinor frowned, confused, the little crease between her eyebrows deepening. "But isn't that wrong, too?" Edith wasn't quite sure where Elinor had picked up that idea. Ruby Adams again, she guessed? Certainly no one of Elinor's immediate circle - Tom, Signora Rossi, Helen or Edith herself - would consider spreading such ideas, and it wasn't as if churchgoing had been a particularly important fixture in Elinor's life thus far.

Edith half-smiled. "Sometimes, yes. But your daddy's wife was very ill and she wasn't the person he had married anymore. He was very sad because of that, when I met him." She didn't know whether Michael's grief had been real, or feigned, but there was no need to let Elinor in on her doubts. She always tried very hard not to speak of him with disapproval, even to Tom, and it certainly wasn't fair to impose her own views of her ex-lover onto Elinor. There was a single photograph of him in the drawer of Elinor's bedside cabinet, sometimes drawn out and looked at, but on her own Elinor could barely remember the colour of Michael's hair, let alone the defining traits of his character.

"And you made him happy again?" Elinor asked.

"Yes, I think so," Edith replied. She and Michael _had_ been happy for a time, after all; that first night in this flat, they had drunk champagne and kissed and made love and she had woken blissfully happy. Michael had made her scrambled eggs and strong coffee for breakfast and they had walked through London's streets hand in hand, halfway to the _Sketch_ offices_. _It had only been later that the doubts and quarrels had crept in. Michael had had a jealous streak; he had been uncompromising and demanding; he hadn't understood why Edith was so eager for her family's approval, had taken every visit from Tom or trip to Downton as a personal insult. But she had been able to put her worries aside at first. And then when she had found she was expecting Elinor, it had all become ten times worse. He had been exasperated and apathetic by turns. There had been subtle hints of 'solving the problem', but Edith had so wanted them to be happy, had so wanted her child, that she had ignored them and pretended that she had imagined them. He had never said anything explicitly - perhaps he had been afraid she would leave if he did.

But her answer had only confused Elinor even more, it seemed. Plaintively, she asked, "Then why doesn't he live with us anymore?"

Edith bit her lip. "Oh, my darling… sometimes two people can make each other very happy when they first meet, but not so happy later on. And it isn't right for them to stay with each other if they aren't happy." Growing up at Downton, she had known of too many marriages like that, too many murmurings of couples with separate bedchambers - separate residences, even - who would nevertheless have never contemplated divorce. It just wasn't done, and unhappiness - deep, desperate unhappiness - was far too often the result. All three of them - she, Michael and Elinor - had been spared that, at least.

Elinor absorbed this for a moment, and then asked, in a very small voice, "Was my daddy unhappy because of me?"

"_No_," Edith emphasised firmly. "Your father and I just didn't love each other any more, Elinor. It isn't something that you should be sad about - and it certainly wasn't your fault." Elinor's birth had perhaps hastened Michael's departure, but it had not truly been the cause. By that point, they had already been growing tired of each other, deep down. Edith sometimes wondered, had that last quarrel never happened, for how much longer she would have been able to bear his jealousy and demanding personality. Michael hadn't wanted _her,_ particularly - he had wanted amusement, and when she had ceased to be amusing, he had ceased to care about her.

"Then why doesn't he ever come to see me?"

It was a legitimate question. Edith silently cursed Michael, exasperated at his selfishness in completely deserting his daughter. Edith had long made peace with the fact that she herself was despised by Michael, but Elinor had done nothing to deserve his indifference. Edith got down from the table and went to kneel before Elinor. Here, she felt, was the crux of the matter. She didn't know what to say. "I don't know, my sweet one," she murmured at last. "But, you know, he is missing out on something very wonderful, Elinor. And it makes me feel very lucky that I'm not." _That_ was completely true. To watch Elinor grow from a tiny baby into a little person with thoughts and opinions and a personality of her own had been, thus far, nothing short of a privilege.

Impulsively, Elinor flung her arms around Edith's neck, burying her head in her mother's shoulder. "I love you, Mummy," she murmured. "More than all the jam sandwiches in England."

Edith chuckled. "And I love you more than all the tea in China," she replied. It was their ritual, their way of reassuring each other of what was real and solid and comforting, after nightmares and thunderstorms and quarrels and sad things. Elinor squeezed her tightly one last time and then let go. When Edith caught sight of her face, she looked much happier.

She smiled, relieved. "Now, finish your stew, and perhaps we can play the new record that Grandmama Levinson sent us."


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: And Anthony makes a reappearance...**

* * *

Even though Edith was now unemployed, the structure of her week did not change in its essence. In the mornings, Edith would take Elinor to Signora Rossi, or to Helen, or to Tom - depending on what day it was - and then, instead of going off to the offices of the _Post_, or beginning work on her next article, as she would usually have done, she set about working on her manuscript. It was progressing very nicely now - Edith's plucky journalist heroine Margaret Rapier had just discovered a body in the dining room of her good friend Sir Edward Stirling, and she had granted her pair of amateur detectives a pleasant dinner at the Savoy. There had been a few twinges, of course, a few pangs as she wrote of their easy conversation, her teasing and his laughter, but that was only to be expected.

Over her mid-morning coffee, she would scan the papers for potential employment; already she had undertaken some translation jobs, but nothing more permanent had yet appeared. At twelve o'clock, Elinor would return, happy and spouting a dozen or so new words of Italian. She and Edith would eat their lunch and then go for a walk, or a trip to the park, before returning for some sort of edifying educational activity - they read or practiced counting, or joined Tom for a museum trip. Tea was at half past three, supper at five, and Elinor's bedtime was strictly half past six, after which Edith would retire to the sitting room to complete some more work and deal with all those little tasks that had to be done to ensure that their household was fit for human habitation. Edith never worked on Friday mornings, either - on those days, she devoted herself entirely to Elinor's education and amusement.

It was on one of these Friday mornings, a fortnight after Edith had left the _Post_, when it happened. Edith and Elinor were sitting at the piano - a somewhat battered but still tune-worthy thing that Tom had found them, going for a song - tracing over some simple scales, Edith surely, Elinor less so. Music always made Edith feel peaceful - and peace was what she was in desperate need of, after her sudden encounter with Sir Anthony. It had been nearly two weeks and she had still not fully recovered. Teaching Elinor to play the piano delighted and distracted them both, although Elinor's small fingers sometimes found it hard work.

The knock on the door startled them both. They weren't expecting anyone. Could Sybbie be ill again, Edith wondered? She rose from her seat, with a quiet word to Elinor to keep practicing, and went to answer it. But it was not Tom. Whoever she could have possibly expected, it was certainly not the man who stood there, nervously straightening his tie and looking thoroughly out of place in bohemian Bloomsbury. He opened his mouth to greet her, but Edith got in first. She was in no mood for pleasantries, not with this man.

"What are you doing here? How did you find this flat?" Edith demanded sharply.

Sir Anthony Strallan flushed, opening and closing his mouth once or twice as he tried to find his words. "I went to your editor's office - " he began.

"My former editor," she corrected him. A tingle of fear ran up her spine - had Mr Edmonds told Sir Anthony the reason for her departure from the _Post? _He inclined his head awkwardly, acknowledging the rebuke, and tried again. "I explained that your parents and I were old friends - "

_How like Anthony, to make our connection sound so distant and boring! Whose reputation was he trying to protect, I wonder? _"And he gave you my address?" Edith asked, folding her arms across her chest in disapproval. She had thought Mr Edmonds had too much sense, not to mention discretion, to hand out the addresses of his staff - former staff - to anyone who asked for them.

Anthony fidgeted, stepping from one foot to the other. "Please don't blame Mr Edmonds, I - "

"I assure you, I don't," she cut in, suddenly aware of how much like Mary she sounded. "I'm aware of how persuasive you can be." It was true; Anthony, whilst generally very unassuming, would not hesitate to use his title to obtain what he wished in times of need, whether it was more efficient rebuilding work on the Locksley cottages, or an exit from an unpleasant conversation. It was only concerning her that he had been unable to stand up for himself.

"I wasn't sure whether to come," he sighed ruefully. "Edith…" For she wasn't to know that he had spent the past eleven days alternately pacing his library and wandering London, her address on a worn piece of paper in his waistcoat pocket, debating whether to impose himself on her once more. He still wasn't sure he had made the right decision.

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. "What do you _want_, Sir Anthony?" Vaguely, she recalled that she was being rude; had she been at Downton, her mother would have sent her upstairs for less. But Downton was hundreds of miles and seven years away, and Anthony had abandoned her at the altar - she owed him no politeness.

"I wanted to see you again," he confessed. "I didn't want to leave things… as they were." Her mouth twitched. _As they were. You mean - crying myself to sleep every night for three months because you left me at the altar? Falling in with Michael and disgracing myself and still not being able to forget you, or even hate you?_ Was he really so blind to what he had done, as to believe that a visit and an apology would change anything?

"How noble of you," she bit out. "I rather think it's best if we _do_, don't you?"

"Lady Edith…" And still he would not leave! She was even more furious with him for this, even more furious than she had been when he had left her on their wedding day. For she had not been angry with him at all then - she had not been able to be. Edith felt a sudden rush of venom towards him.

"Please, don't feel any discomfort on my part," she said coldly. "You were right, Sir Anthony - when we knew each other, I was a child. I'm a grown woman now and it's been a long time since I cried over foolish things." All those years observing Granny handing out cuttingly brusque set-downs had not been wasted. Anthony stepped back at the ice in her voice. Suddenly he looked very old and astonishingly tired. He bowed his head solemnly. "Perhaps you are right," he acknowledged. "It was a dreadful mistake to come here." He looked up at her, eyes begging her to understand. "Please, forgive me," and she did not think he was referring to the wedding.

"Be happy, Edith," he whispered.

He turned to go. Edith was breathing heavily. _That's that, then_. _Good riddance_. She watched him descend the steps, face set. _He used to be able to quarrel with you_, she reminded herself. _He was never afraid of you before. Perhaps he just doesn't care enough anymore._ _He _is _a coward!_ But there was something in the hunch of his shoulders that was making her feel suddenly very guilty. His voice at the last had been positively stricken…

To search out her address from Mr Edmonds must have taken a great deal of courage - had it been anyone but Anthony, she would have been terrified and furious. As it was, she did not know what to feel. His actions showed that he was not so uncaring as she had once, foolishly, believed him. Edith relented, finally. "Sir Anthony!" she called and he halted, turning, his expression nervous as if he expected her to shout at him again. Slowly, he walked back up to the door. "I'm - I'm grateful to you for coming," she murmured eventually. "But I don't know what you are hoping to achieve."

But before Anthony could reply, something happened that changed the situation completely. There was the sound of pattering feet in the hall behind her and Edith winced. Elinor popped up next to her, startling Anthony. For a moment, all was silent. And then Elinor, dear, sweet, ignorant Elinor, looked up calmly at Anthony and asked, "Who are you?"

"I'm Sir Anthony Strallan," he answered faintly and glanced across at Edith, an eyebrow raised, waiting for an introduction. It could not be helped. Bravely resting a hand on Elinor's blonde curls, Edith smiled quaveringly up at him. "Sir Anthony, this is Elinor. My daughter."


	5. Chapter 5

His lips parted in shock and he stepped back; Edith noted the look of sadness, quickly veiled, in his blue eyes, and then he recovered, smiling, and extended his hand for her own in congratulation. Edith had no choice but to shake it. "Your daughter? I - Forgive me, Lady Edith, I did not know you were married." He had checked the English papers for notice of her marriage every day since they had parted ways - how on earth had he missed…?

Edith extricated her hand reluctantly from his own. When he knew what she had done, what she was, he would make some excuse to leave quickly enough. She was faintly disconcerted to realise that, despite her brave words, she did not particularly want him to. "I'm not," she admitted quietly.

"Oh," he said. She had surprised him once again. She expected to read disappointment, disapproval even, in his face, but when she dared to look at him, there was none. He was wearing that polite, English country gentleman expression that meant he wished to give nothing of what he was feeling away. Somehow that was even worse. He coughed. "Good Lord. Might I ask - ?" He stopped himself and rubbed a hand over his eyes. There was something strange in that, but surprise and embarrassment had made her idiotish and she could not think what it was. "Forgive me," he repeated firmly, and looked at her. "Lady Edith, that was extremely crass of me."

His kindness was what had made her fall in love with him, at first. She felt suddenly ashamed for supposing that he would not be the soul of gentlemanliness even towards an individual such as herself. "Please, call me Edith," she said, attempting a smile. "We are not so estranged that you must use my title, surely?" The bitterness of the past few moments had gone. Edith was suddenly tired of fighting.

A pause, and then Anthony (and somehow he had become just 'Anthony' again) returned her smile and suggested, bravely, "Perhaps we could have some tea? All of us? I think I saw a Lyons' on my way here…"

Edith smiled. "I think… that would be very welcome, Sir Anthony."

They suddenly recalled that they were standing half in and half out of the flat, and blushed. Edith silently collected their coats and her handbag and joined him outside on the street. Shyly, Anthony offered her his arm and Edith accepted, casting a look over at Elinor. She didn't seem to be particularly fazed by this strange new gentleman with the pleasant blue eyes and sling -

But, no, there was no sling. And it suddenly struck Edith that there had been no sling yesterday either, and when he had brushed his fingers across his eyes just then, and offered her his arm, he had used his _right hand_. "Your arm!" she blurted out. "It isn't damaged anymore!"

Anthony looked sheepishly at her. "My doctor in London examined me, a few months after…" He stopped, the rest of his sentence melting on his lips. Elinor squirmed next to her, and Edith realised that her hand, holding Elinor's, had clenched involuntarily. She loosened her grip and focused her attention once more on Anthony. He smiled apologetically. "Well, anyway, he said that perhaps there was something that could be done. Surgery, and the like. Apparently the bullet had shifted itself into a more amenable position and so they removed it. It'll never be as good as it was, but I can use it now, at least, to carry things and dress myself. I'm even beginning to drive again."

A lump had formed in her throat and she was finding it difficult to speak, or indeed, to hold back tears. _If only all this had happened sooner!_ At last, shakily, she told him, "I am so glad - so very glad! I remember how much you used to love to drive!"

* * *

Once in a public place, however, Edith began to feel more awkward. To sit in a teashop with a child and a man naturally caused other people to make certain assumptions about one's situation._ A nice couple with their pretty little daughter_. Edith gritted her teeth and made no move to remove her gloves - with her hands bare and obviously ring-free, the deception would be at an end. They found a table and ordered tea for themselves, and a glass of milk for Elinor, and the waitress, obliging girl that she was, suggested that Elinor go with her to select a slice of cake. When the tea arrived, Edith poured for both of them; Anthony was half-amused and half-ashamed to note that she still remembered how he took his.

"What do you do with yourself?" he asked, curiously. "Apart from the writing?"

Edith smiled. "Oh, raising Elinor, looking after our flat. And I campaign for the Six Point Group occasionally, too."

Anthony frowned at the unfamiliar name. "I'm sorry?"

Edith ducked her head. "We campaign for equal rights - for everyone. Equal pay for male and female teachers, and fairer laws for mothers and children, that sort of thing. We hold rallies and write to newspapers and raise petitions. It helps that I'm a journalist, of course. Anyway, it makes me feel as if I'm doing some good, for someone other than myself."

"That's wonderful." He sounded entirely sincere.

"It is," she replied firmly. "And I teach languages, sometimes, and do translation work. I'm not idle, if that's what you mean."

"I never thought you would be," he reassured her warmly. Edith blushed and busied herself with the milk jug. Over his teacup, Anthony watched her curiously. She had grown thinner, he thought, and a little wearier. But that old determined spark was still there, and motherhood seemed to have added to it. She was wary too, however; always so watchful of Elinor, so sensitive to every movement, every breath. He wanted to smile at how much she obviously adored her child - he had always known that Edith would make a wonderful mother. And yet… He wished so much to _know_ and yet could not ask!

Edith seemed to realise his preoccupation. She attempted a smile, but Anthony's eyes remained serious. "Ask me, if you like," she murmured. Anthony flushed, embarrassed at being caught out. He was acutely aware of how little Edith owed him any answers at all. "I don't - that is, it isn't any of my business. You've a right to behave as you wish."

Edith raised her eyebrows in disbelief. "You must be curious. I don't blame you."

Anthony chewed on his lip, staring down at the table. She knew him too well. At last, he sighed. "All right. Who is he? Elinor's father?"

She set down her teacup and folded her hands in her lap. "His name is Michael Gregson," she murmured softly, attempting to avoid anyone else overhearing. Anthony's eyes narrowed slightly and Edith flushed. He was regularly in London, she knew - had been for years. Of course he would have heard of Michael. Nonetheless, she continued: "My editor at the _Sketch_. His wife was insane, in an asylum and Michael couldn't divorce her. We had been living together for six months when I fell pregnant. He'd never particularly wanted children but he did stick by me, at first anyway." She never knew why she so often felt the urge to defend her former lover to others; perhaps it was because Elinor - that strange, bright little creature whom she adored with her whole heart - was half Michael, an extension of his essence as well as hers. "After Elinor was born, things became impossible. We were just so _unhappy_ together. He left when Elinor was a year old, and went to America."

Anthony started with surprise. The idea of Edith as a single mother had obviously not occurred to him. Had he imagined her living in sin with a lover, she wondered? "He _abandoned_ you?" he asked, somehow managing to inject a great deal of outrage into his words without raising his voice at all. "How could _any_ man - ?"

She raised a hand wearily, and begged, "Please, don't. He had no legal duty towards me, but he did acknowledge Elinor. I can't complain." She couldn't bear to hear the same ragings from Anthony that she had heard a thousand times over from Tom. It would only make her believe that he cared.

Anthony sat back, absorbing the information to which she had made him privy. "And… financially?" She could almost have laughed. In Anthony's world, it was the done thing for men to provide for their former mistresses after the end of their affairs - to part without generosity was almost a sin. Michael had had no such scruples. Briefly she wondered if Anthony himself had personal experience of such matters; it wasn't impossible, she supposed. The late Lady Strallan had been dead for almost twenty years - plenty of time for a man to form other attachments. And before his married life… Edith forced herself to direct her thoughts elsewhere. She had never been so forthright in considering Anthony before. There was no reason to start now.

"No," she replied. "He didn't offer, and I wouldn't have taken anything anyway. I didn't want anything more to do with him." This last sentence was said so viciously that Anthony's mind was overtaken by a sudden, horrid suspicion. "Was he… cruel to you?"

Edith smiled wanly at his polite way of putting the question; she had forgotten how euphemistic he was when describing relations between men and women. "You mean, did he beat me? He struck me once - and that was the last straw. You must understand…" She stopped, as if unwilling to go on, and took a sip of her tea. When she had swallowed, she sighed and finished, rather lamely, "Well, he left, anyway."

"Of course." He reached out and gently covered her hand with his own. The simple gesture of comfort and warmth was so typical of him that it seemed as if they had been transported back years, to when they had first met and he had shyly courted her with concerts and car-drives. It saddened her.

"So you see," she half-smiled, "considering the scrapes I've got myself into, you had rather a lucky escape. I congratulate you."

His grip tightened on her. "_Never_ say that," he replied fiercely. "You are not to blame. Don't even think it." He cleared his throat and the remembrance of their past association, held off for some time by polite commonplaces and diplomatic smiles, crashed down around them once more. "I must apologise, for… for the way I behaved, that day. I wished only the best for you." The irony of the statement did not escape either of them, and Edith's eyes slid to Elinor, across the cafe, awaiting a slice of jam sponge.

She shook her head, returning her attention to Anthony. "You know, I was never angry with you." Her lips tilted in a bemused smile. "Perhaps it might have helped if I had been. I hated you for weeks because I could not be angry with you."

"Only weeks?" he murmured softly. "I have hated myself every day since."

Edith looked down, almost overwhelmed by the intensity of his expression. "It's all in the past, Anthony. Don't make yourself unhappy any longer. Please." And this time, he realised that her words were sincere. How funny it was, that seven years of estrangement and disgust could be swept away so easily! But then, Edith rarely held grudges.

"Mummy!" Elinor was back, clambering up onto her seat. Anthony sipped his tea in silence, and tried to ignore Elinor's grave little face watching him over her glass of milk. Edith had turned her attention to her daughter, finding a napkin to spread over her lap, and cutting the slice of cake into more manageable pieces. With a mischievous glance at her daughter, Edith filched a square of cake and popped it into her mouth, provoking an indignant giggle from Elinor. "Mummy, that's not fair!"

Edith laughed. "What isn't fair is to sit and gorge oneself and not offer to _share_ one's cake!"

Seriously, Elinor turned to Anthony. "Would you like some of my cake, Sir Anthony?"

Anthony smiled indulgently, and took a piece. "Thank you. You know, Elinor, jam sponge is my very favourite."

Elinor's eyes went wide. "Mine too!" With a slight frown, she added, "Mummy always says she likes fruitcake better, though." Anthony chuckled, and Edith was set at ease. There had always been fruitcake at teatime at Locksley, when she had visited him there - rich and darkly sweet - and to eat it now was to take her back there, to a simpler time.

"Mummy likes fruitcake better because it means that certain little girls have less of a chance to get jam everywhere," Edith interjected dryly, taking out her handkerchief to rub at a spot of it that had somehow made its way onto the side of Elinor's nose. They looked very alike, Anthony noted, amused. The same red-gold hair, the same brown eyes and stubborn expressions… Edith glanced at him and caught him staring. He blushed and looked away, but he could see Edith grinning bashfully out of the corner of his eye.

They ended up sharing the rest of the cake between them. After her initial burst of confidence, she grew shyer and simply listened while Edith and Anthony talked of unimportant things. At last, the tea was finished and the cake gone. Anthony reached for his pocket book. Edith put out a hand. "Oh, let me pay for mine and Elinor's share."

Anthony turned to call the waitress. "Nonsense, you must allow me." He looked over his shoulder, to stare seriously at Edith. "It's really the least I can do, after taking up so much of your time this morning." Edith opened her mouth to reassure Anthony that tea with him could never be considered as 'taking up her time', but Elinor was tugging gently on her sleeve. Edith knew what that meant. She rose from her seat, taking Elinor's hand. "Excuse us for a moment?"

Elinor having used the facilities, they met Anthony back in the teashop. He had paid and was waiting for them by the door. Outside, they hovered for a while on the pavement. At last Edith extended her hand, unwilling to leave. Anthony shook it warmly. "Well, it was very nice to have seen you again, Sir Anthony."

"Likewise, Lady Edith." He shuffled on his feet, hesitating. Edith waited. It was her experience that Anthony needed time to frame requests of any sort. "I wonder… would you allow me to call on you, properly? I plan to be in London for some weeks, and I'm afraid I've lost touch with most of my acquaintances. Of course, you may not wish… you may be otherwise engaged…"

Edith smiled. "Elinor and I would be glad to receive you, at any time," she replied, in tones of mock politeness. She had forgotten what it was like to tease Anthony.

His eyes lit up. "Really? Oh, splendid." He hesitated, and looked around for a moment. _Nothing ventured, nothing gained, old chap._ "Perhaps I might walk you home?"

"Thank you, Anthony. That would be lovely."

* * *

**AN: The Six Point Group was founded in 1921 by Lady Rhondda (a former militant suffragette who had inherited her peerage from her father, Viscount Rhondda, but was forbidden because of her sex from taking his seat in the Lords), to campaign for better legislation in Britain in six areas: child assault, support for widowed mothers, support for the unmarried mother and her children, equal rights of guardianship for married parents, equal pay for teachers, and equal opportunities in the civil service. These aims later evolved into six general points of equality campaigning: political, occupational, moral, social, economic and legal. It wielded significant influence during the interwar years, and during the Second World War, and was not formally dissolved until 1983.**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Thanks for all the lovely reviews so far - and apologies that it's taken me so long to get this chapter up...**

* * *

When Edith unlocked the door to the flat, Elinor dashed past her into the hall. Edith turned and offered Anthony an apologetic smile. "Please, come in," she murmured. Anthony hesitated for a moment on the threshold, worried about entering Edith's private domain, and then stepped forwards. Edith closed the door behind him with a soft snap and paused to check her wind-tossed hair in the small round mirror that hung on the wall. Anthony examined the little hall, neatly wall-papered, with dark wooden floors. A pair of Edith's shoes stood in a corner, next to a tiny, muddy pair of boots that he guessed were Elinor's. A half-open door to his left revealed a living room of sorts, while a door straight ahead was pushed fully back to show the kitchen. Three closed doors to his right were bedrooms and perhaps a bathroom, he supposed. It was small, that was for sure, but all very Edith.

At that moment, the object of his thoughts was helping her daughter undo a particularly stiff button on her duffle coat. "Elinor, when you've taken off your coat, can you go and wash your hands and face, please? It's so dusty outside - you look like you've just been pulled out of a coal mine."

"Yes, Mummy," replied Elinor obediently. "What's for supper?"

"Signora Rossi promised to leave some Cacciucco for us, sweet one." Anthony, who had been busying himself in examining the watercolours Edith had hung on the walls, twitched in surprise at the endearment, and his head jerked around to look at Edith. She, however, was focused on Elinor. Anthony had considered himself a cultured man, but the dish was unfamiliar to him; however it appeared that it was not so to Elinor. "My favourite!" she exclaimed jubilantly, clapping her hands together in excitement.

"I know," Edith smiled. "Little girls who draw charming pictures and behave so well all day simply _must_ have their favourite suppers." She received her daughter's coat from her and hung it onto a peg next to her own. "Hands and face, please."

Elinor ran off down the hall, and Anthony turned to Edith. "You called her - "

She couldn't bear to hear the endearment, spoken only once, fall from his lips again, and so she interrupted. "I have since she was a baby. It just… came naturally. Silly, isn't it?" He was about to reassure her, when they heard the bathroom door open again.

Elinor was back, hands dripping wet, a thought of great importance clearly having struck her in the midst of her afternoon wash. "Can Sir Anthony stay for supper, Mummy?" she asked eagerly. Anthony heard Edith's breath catch; he expected her to look at him for confirmation, but she was steadily avoiding his eye. Had he made that much of an impression, he wondered? "I… Sir Anthony may be busy," Edith protested, in an odd, strangled sort of voice.

Elinor turned her serious gaze onto him. "Are you?" she asked bluntly.

Edith winced. "Elinor Crawley!" she hissed, and Anthony saw how easily she had slipped into this role of benevolent tyrant. "Don't be so rude!" That was all she needed - for Anthony to believe that she was raising an uncouth little hoyden! She lowered her voice, attempting to shoo Elinor back to the bathroom. "Sir Anthony may not _want _to eat with us."

Anthony smiled and intervened gracefully. "I'd be honoured. That is, if Signora Rossi's famous Cacciucco will stretch to three people."

His tongue stumbled over the unfamiliar syllables, but Edith seemed to relax and she finally looked at him, searching for confirmation in his eyes. He nodded subtly. Wryly, Edith reassured him, "Signora Rossi cooks enough to feed the five thousand." Then, turning back to her daughter, she added, "Now - hands and face, Elinor." Under cover of her daughter's excited chattering and noisy footsteps as she scampered away back down the passage, she confided to Anthony, "You don't have to stay, you know. You probably have a prior engagement. Elinor is far too outspoken for her own good. I can make some excuse, if you'd prefer - "

He shook his head, silencing her. "Not at all. I told Figgins that I'd be dining at my club. Now, who is Signora Rossi?"

Edith smiled and extended her hands for his coat and hat. "She lives in the flat above us. When she first came here, she couldn't speak English very well. I helped with that and she helped me with the domestic side of things. Now I pay her what I can afford, and she looks after Elinor sometimes, and cooks a little. I don't know what I would have done without her. Elinor adores her."

By the time Elinor had returned, Edith had collected their dinner from upstairs, and was standing awkwardly in the doorway to the kitchen as Anthony pulled out the dining table from its corner into the centre of the room. Luckily, Edith kept spare chairs - Tom and Sybbie were their guests too frequently for it not to be a necessity. Elinor, with a maturity that Anthony wouldn't have expected, collected knives and forks from the kitchen sideboard and clambered up onto her chair to lay the table, while her mother fetched bowls and a serving spoon.

The Cacciucco turned out to be a sort of Italian fish stew. Anthony detected John Dory, monkfish, mullet and something he suspected to be eel, as well as thyme, rosemary, bay leaf, onions and tomatoes. It was delicious. Edith produced a jug of cool lemonade from the pantry, much to her daughter's delight - "I'm afraid I've quite given up wine," she laughed to Anthony as she poured three glasses - and Anthony couldn't help laughing along with her.

Elinor had cleared her plate and started on a second helping in the time it took the adults to eat half as much - proof, if any were needed, that it was indeed her favourite dish. Edith had stewed apples for pudding, and she looked up at Anthony apologetically as she set it out on the table. "I know you prefer cheese…"

He shook his head and lifted an enthusiastic spoonful of apple. "Not at all. This looks delicious." Edith relaxed once more and settled to the rest of her meal. The conversation was carried along more smoothly than Edith could have hoped for. She had forgotten how good Anthony was at talking to all sorts of people - whether it was discussing the roses with the gardener's boy at Locksley, conversing about cricket and the farms with her brothers-in-law, joking about politics with her, or enquiring closely into Elinor's Italian lessons with Signora Rossi. "Può tua madre parlare Italiano, troppo?" asked Anthony quietly.

Elinor grinned and nodded, but Edith interjected, "Non bene come Elinor.*" Anthony flushed slightly, caught out, and inclined his head to Edith. "Touchè," he murmured lightly.

After they had finished eating and carried the empty plates into the kitchen to be washed up later, Elinor looked up at her mother. "Can I put a record on, Mummy?"

Edith nodded indulgently. "Yes, but not - " But Elinor had already vanished into the hallway. Edith sighed and turned to Anthony. "We've had 'Crazy Words, Crazy Tune' on for days now," she said, with an almost comical expression of exasperation. "My grandmother sent it over from America - and I'm rather starting to wish she hadn't."

Anthony smiled, but he was privately glad that at least one of Edith's older relations had not cast her off entirely. He ought to have known that Mrs Levinson would break ranks. Elinor returned and handed her choice to Edith, who breathed a sigh of relief before putting it on. The strains of some jazz tune crackled out from the gramophone. Apparently this too was a favourite - Elinor pulled her mother up to dance with her, and soon they were both singing along, forgetting Anthony's presence entirely. "_Oh, how I long to be the man I used to be! Fascinating rhythm - you got to stop picking on me!"_

And indeed it _was_ a fascinating rhythm, Anthony found. He wasn't particularly familiar with any of the new jazz tunes, but this one was rather catchy, once one had got used to the odd beat. The record ended, and Edith turned to reset it. Then Elinor caught sight of Anthony. "Come and dance with us!" she begged, pulling at his hand. Edith caught his eye, Anthony smiled and rose. "Your mother will tell you how badly I dance," he warned Elinor.

"Uncle Tom does too," Elinor reassured him, "but Mummy always makes him better."

Anthony raised his eyebrows good-humouredly, and extended his hand for Edith's. She took it and they started to dance, lazily, with very little skill on Anthony's part. He was too busy watching the light in Edith's eyes as she executed the new, complex steps to concentrate on his own performance. Elinor didn't seem to mind, in any case - she watched them, wide-eyed, apparently enthralled at the sight of her mother dancing with someone who was not her uncle. Anthony found himself enjoying it all immensely; perhaps he wasn't too old for such things. Perhaps he could write to his nephew David, a student at Cambridge - surely he would have more such records in his possession? Man could not live on bread and Puccini alone, after all. Elinor spun into their midst, and Edith released one of Anthony's hands to take up one of Elinor's. And then Elinor was slipping her other hand in Anthony's free palm and they were all dancing together, raucously and joyously, singing along with much laughter and mangling of words.

After a few more rounds of the record, Elinor had curled up on the sofa again and was watching the adults sleepily. Edith removed the record and put it away. She lifted her daughter into her arms, and murmured to Anthony, "I'll just settle her into bed, and be back." He nodded and watched her leave. Then he looked around the small sitting room, which doubled as a dining room and study. Edith had pushed the table back after they had eaten and curled up on the sofa with Elinor, leaving the armchair to Anthony. Now, he stood next to it, catching his breath. From this vantage point, he could observe the photographs Edith had set up on her mantel shelf - mostly of Elinor, with a few group shots showing Mr Branson and his daughter as well - and the books that rested on almost every other available surface; Dorothy Sayers' new mystery, which she was clearly half-way through, a few Agatha Christies, an F. Scott Fitzgerald, tucked in next to a well-worn copy of Browning's poetry, which in turn was sitting alongside an equally well-worn copy of _The Tale of Peter Rabbit_. Catching sight of one particular title, however, he frowned and left his position, leaning against the chair, to examine it more closely.

He brushed his hand over the embossed leather cover - _The Poetry of Donne_. He had given this to her, a lifetime ago - a daring engagement present. She had blushed charmingly at it and murmured that she would have to be careful to hide it from her father. And he had said… _oh, what had he said?_ "At Locksley, my dearest, you shall need to hide nothing." The remembrance of her joy broke his heart now, perhaps even more so after the delight of the past few hours.

Behind him, Edith cleared her throat and he turned around. He hadn't heard her come back in. She was observing him with concern, head tilted on one side, and he realised too late that his cheeks were wet with tears. "Are you all right?" she asked, quiveringly.

He nodded and dried his eyes with his handkerchief. "I was looking at your books," he admitted. Then, quietly, "You kept the Donne I gave you."

She twisted her hands together. "Of course I did." Her tone was brisk, matter-of-fact, and he shifted, uncomfortable that she had not recovered from him as easily as she had appeared to. Then she chuckled, without mirth. "You know, that was what Michael and I were quarrelling about, the night he left."

His eyebrows shot up, almost comically. "_What_?" How could one quarrel over a book? Had this Gregson fellow been some sort of a madman? Edith stepped forward and picked up the abandoned volume, brushing her fingers over the cover. "He was looking through it, and he noticed the inscription you'd put in the front - _To my dearest darling, with my fondest love_ - do you remember?" Anthony gave her a look. _How could he forget?_ Edith sighed. "He was angry about it - angry that I'd kept the book, jealous that I wouldn't get rid of it when he asked… He was shouting so _loudly_ and then…" She shuddered, drawing her cardigan closer around her still-slim frame, book clutched to her chest.

Anthony spoke, and he sounded so very far away. He had already guessed what was coming next. "And then he hit you. Good God…"

"He was right, in a way." He made a move, as if to contradict her, and she flapped her hand at him for silence. "Oh, not about striking me - but about some of the things he said. He accused me of always treating him as though he were second best, a consolation prize of sorts. I suppose I did see him that way, and then when Elinor was born, I only stayed because I was afraid of bringing more disgrace and scandal down on my head." Anthony closed his eyes, hearing everything that she was not saying. _This, too, is your fault, Strallan. All of it. If you had married her -_ He stopped that thought before it escaped him.

"What did you do?" he asked. He wanted so much to understand, to know what her life had been like then, what it had been like in the intervening years, however painful it might be, however much it might make him reproach himself. "Afterwards? I locked us - Elinor and I - into her bedroom and packed a bag." Her mouth twisted bitterly. "He hammered on the door for about an hour, shouting things, mainly that I was a mad bitch" - Anthony flinched at her language - "and didn't deserve a man like him. Then he went to bed and I took Elinor to Tom's. When I came back the next morning, his things had gone, but that wasn't unusual." He frowned in query, and she clarified, "It wasn't by then, anyway." The arguments had become so bad and so frequent by that point that it hadn't been at all odd for Michael to pack a bag and storm out of the flat, back to his house, or to his club, or to the nearest public house after one of their spats. Sometimes he would be gone for a few hours, sometimes days or even weeks could pass before he came back, apologetic and contrite, begging for her forgiveness. Towards the end, his disappearances had almost been a relief for Edith; it had been far easier to concentrate on her work, and on Elinor, when Michael was not around to disturb the peace with his silent reproaches of her and his indifference towards their child. Looking back on that time, Edith could not understand why she had continued to allow his sudden exits and reappearances for so long. Had she been so very desperate for love and companionship, whatever the cost?

She shrugged. "The next thing I knew was when our landlord wrote me a letter saying that Michael had stopped paying the rent on the flat. That was when I finally realised that he'd gone for good. And I haven't seen him since." That had been the greatest relief of all, she had found. She knew that he was still alive and well - she had spent a rather unpleasant half-hour one morning soon after his final departure quizzing George Laybury, one of Michael's cronies, as to this fact - and once the mystery of his whereabouts had been solved, Edith had gladly begun to build a new life for herself and Elinor, alone. Without the threat of Michael's return hanging over her head, she had been able to relax for perhaps the first time in three years.

Anthony, however, clearly did not share her sanguine view of the situation. He sat down again, absorbing her words with a grave expression on his face. "I've shocked you," she sighed unhappily. "Again."

He looked up sharply. "_He_ shocks me, my dear, not you. How any man could - " He forced himself to stop, afraid of what he might say. At last, he shook his head and forced out, rather stiffly, "Violence towards a lady should not be among the habits of a gentleman."

_Ah, so that was the problem_. Edith smiled crookedly, trying to ignore the fierce concern behind his words, and perched on the arm of the chair. "No, I don't suppose it should. But it was all a very long time ago, now - and I have Elinor and my work. It hasn't all been bad." Hesitantly, she reached out and touched his hand.

He brooded for a moment longer, and then returned her smile and began to lift her hand to his lips. Edith closed her eyes, _wishing_ -

And then she heard Elinor's footsteps padding along the passage and the warning creak of the sitting room door, and lurched up from her seat, drawing her hand away from Anthony, as one would from a needle when one had pricked one's finger. Smoothing her skirt, she asked her daughter breathlessly, "What is it, dearest?"

Elinor brushed sleepily at her eyes, teddy bear tucked firmly under her arm. "I'm thirsty."

Edith nodded and smoothed her hand over Elinor's sleep-mussed curls. "I'll fetch you a glass of water. And then, young lady, it's back to bed for you."

Edith vanished into the kitchen and Elinor sat down cross-legged on the rug by the fire. "How did you meet my mummy?" she asked Anthony shrewdly, propping her chin on the top of Edward Teddington's furry head. Anthony coughed, wondering how on earth to explain his and Edith's startling past. He supposed he should be grateful that it had taken this long to come up. At last he settled for telling her, "Well… I know her mother and father. I went to dinner with them once, and your mother was there. And after that, she and I became very good friends. Before the war."

"I know about the war," Elinor nodded knowledgeably. "Mummy says my uncle Matthew fought in the war. And Arnaud too. He only has one leg now, one real one anyway. He has a pretend one as well, but Mummy says I shouldn't mention it."

Bewildered by this exceptionally rambling explanation, Anthony could only ask, "Who is Arnaud?"

Edith was back, carrying a glass of water, which she passed down to Elinor. "He lives in the flat next door," she explained, as Elinor gulped thirstily. "He's Belgian. Awfully nice fellow, came here after the war. He's a carpenter - he built Elinor a dolls' house for Christmas, didn't he, sweet one?"

Elinor nodded enthusiastically. "Can I show Sir Anthony?"

Edith smiled indulgently and retrieved Elinor's now empty glass. "Not tonight. You have to sleep."

When she had returned Elinor to her bed, the atmosphere seemed to have cooled somewhat. The mention of Arnaud had made Anthony's face close up and Edith desperately wanted to explain the circumstances to him. "Arnaud only did that for Elinor because I helped him improve his English when he first came here," she burst out, hovering on the rug before his armchair. "He's very kind - he and Tom help me with some of the heavy household jobs sometimes - but we've never felt that way about each other. Arnaud… isn't a ladies' man." He frowned and then his face smoothed out as he realised that Edith meant precisely what he himself would mean by the same phrase. His mouth relaxed into a sheepish smile. "Oh, my dear, forgive me for being a foolish old man. I don't have the right to worry about your friends, after all."

She returned his smile, cautiously. "I don't mind. Sometimes… well, perhaps it would be nice to have someone to worry about me. Of course, I have Tom, but he has Sybbie and - " She stopped and cast an anxious glance in his direction. "Is that terribly vain?"

The thought of her believing such a desire to be self-indulgent infuriated him. This was what Robert Crawley's cold indifference and his own ill-judged attempt at honour - and, later, Michael Gregson's ugly brutality - had done to her, and there was no one in the world who deserved it less. He stood up and extended his hand and Edith looked up at him, surprised. By way of explanation, he murmured, "I hope from now on, you will allow _me_ to worry about you, from time to time?"

Edith ignored his offered hand and impulsively stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek instead, balancing her hands on his broad, well-muscled shoulders. When she drew back, his eyes were closed and his expression was calmer than it had been all day. Edith took the opportunity to examine his face; the lines around his eyes and mouth were deeper than they had been seven years ago, his face slightly thinner, the angles of his jaw and cheekbones more sharply defined. But he was still the Anthony she remembered in essentials - he was impeccably clean shaven with his blonde hair curling gently over his forehead; he was still just as tall and broad-shouldered, offering her that same sense of comfort and security, the lack of which had made being with Michael, in all senses, so horribly jarring.

"Thank you, Anthony."

* * *

**AN: * The Italian Anthony speaks to Elinor means "Can your mother speak Italian, too?" **

**Edith tells him, "Not as well as Elinor."**


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Thanks for all the lovely reviews for the last chapter. I hit a bit of a block with this chapter, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless...**

* * *

Edith soon discovered that Anthony was as good as his word. The next few weeks were a pleasant blur of writing, Elinor and Anthony - sometimes all at once. Anthony became a regular caller at the flat, to drink tea, chat with Edith, and sometimes read the next part of her manuscript, or one of the freelance articles she was firing off to various newspapers in the hopes that such activity would yield something more permanent.

"Mummy, may we go to the park this afternoon?" Elinor asked one lunchtime, as she stood at the front window, waving to her uncle Tom as he walked away, having delivered her safely home. Her mother looked up from where she was pouring tea for herself and Sir Anthony and smiled. "Why not? It's a beautiful day."

"And can we ask Helen and Sir Anthony to come too?" enthused Elinor, hopping from one foot to another.

Anthony grinned and lifted his tea cup. "I don't know about Helen, but I'd be delighted."

Elinor let out a whoop of delight and threw herself at her newest friend, wrapping her little arms around his waist and hugging tight. Anthony's look of surprised delight warmed Edith's heart - he looked as if he had never been on the receiving end of such honest joy.

* * *

"I win, I win!" Elinor cried, as she sped past the tree they were using as a finish line, seconds before Anthony, with Helen trailing behind. Edith tore her eyes and attention away from the activities of the inimitable Peter Wimsey, and glanced up. She strongly suspected that Anthony was allowing Elinor to win; his long stride could easily beat hers if he wished it.

The man himself was jogging over to her, having pleaded exhaustion. He sat down on the blanket next to her and rested his head back against the tree. "I'm impressed with her energy," he commented laughingly, as they watched Elinor and Helen return to their starting point, ready for another race. She set aside her book

"This is nothing," Edith assured him wryly. "She'll go for another hour or so, and still be bouncing off the walls at bedtime."

He chuckled. "She's a wonderful child. You've done very well with her."

Edith's face lost some of its mirth. "Done well for a single mother, you mean?" she asked quietly, turning her gaze upon the hands she had folded neatly in her lap.

He winced, suddenly recalling how his words might have been interpreted. "I didn't mean that. But surely it's far more of an achievement - to succeed on one's own at a job meant for two people?"

She looked up at him then, eyes wide with surprise. "No one's ever put it that way before. Not to me, in any case." She paused and rested her hand over his, squeezing lightly. "Thank you."

"Whatever for?" he asked, mystified.

She brushed at an imaginary speck of dirt on her skirt, embarrassed. "For not judging me. For being so very kind."

"Not _very_ kind, dearest," he countered, and his tone of voice was such that she could tell he was recalling less happy days in their acquaintance. Softly, he asked her, "Am I a hypocrite, Edith?"

His question startled her. "I don't understand."

The lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened, giving his face an appearance of severity. "Is it fair for me to be so outraged at the way Gregson treated you, when I behaved in the same way?"

She hastened to reassure him. "Oh, Anthony, you didn't behave in the same way - not at all!" It was so difficult to speak about their past relationship - after that first, intensely awkward meeting, they had confined their conversations to innocent, safe topics. "You… you left me at the altar because you didn't think you deserved me. You wanted me to find something - _someone_ - better. Michael left because he didn't want to be responsible anymore. He was cowardly, you were merely… misguided." She smiled and shook off the gloom that had been settling over them. "Let's not talk about the past. How are you? Really, I mean."

"Better than I've been in a long time," he admitted. "My arm getting better improved things a great deal. I stopped feeling so very useless." He would have liked to add that he never felt so useful as when he was sitting with her, brightening her face and making her laugh, as she used to do, in the old days at Downton.

"I never thought you were useless," she argued lightly. "Even one-handed, you could still play the piano better than I could. And when we played chess… well, I think you rather traded on that arm of yours for sympathy!" And she spoke in such a matter-of-fact tone that Anthony couldn't help but return her smile.

* * *

"I like your Sir Anthony," Helen confided to Edith, as they sat in her sitting room later that evening. "He isn't a stuffed shirt."

Edith half-smiled, easing her feet out of her shoes. Elinor was fast asleep in bed - the trip to the park had worn her out and she had barely managed to keep her eyes open to eat her dinner. "No, he isn't. And he isn't _my _Sir Anthony, either."

Helen gave her a look. "If you say so. He's very knowledgeable about photography, too. I didn't expect that."

Edith was a little indignant. "You thought, because he's a baronet, that he wouldn't sully himself with modernity? Anthony's always been interested in all sorts of things." He had been so knowledgeable about the car, for example, and positively hounded the telephone man with questions when he had come to install one at Locksley. And his library was filled with books on all sorts of subjects; Anthony hated to be ignorant about anything.

Helen shrugged. "Well, it's nice to see you happy for a change, anyway."

Edith raised her eyebrows. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?" she asked. And then, at Helen's snort of impatience, she added, "I'm happy most of the time."

Edith and Helen had been good friends for almost seven years now, ever since Edith and Michael had taken over the flat, and Edith had crashed into Helen on the stairs one day, knocking them both flying. They had got up, Edith had apologised and taken her neighbour out for tea to make it up to her. Halfway through the jam scones they had discovered a mutual love of books and by the time they had returned home, they were as thick as thieves. Helen knew Edith better than anyone else, except perhaps Anthony and Tom, and she was never afraid of saying exactly what she thought. In some ways, this was a blessing. In others, it was positively a curse. This was one of the latter times. Edith didn't particularly want to talk about her relationship with Anthony, and the way her stomach jumped pleasantly every time he looked at her, or smiled at something she had said. Unfortunately, if the look on Helen's face was anything to go by, it appeared that she was not going to escape such a conversation.

"You brighten up when he's about," Helen said firmly. "And I can see that he adores you - "

Edith got up and moved into the kitchen, where her now dry laundry was hanging over a clotheshorse. She moved the contraption into the sitting room and briskly began folding items, the better to hide her embarrassment. "Oh, Helen, don't."

Helen stood up, too, and began to help. She never could bear to sit idly by while a job was being done. "How long are you going to carry on like this, Edith?" she asked.

"Like what?" Edith replied, feigning confusion as she matched the arms of a jumper together and set it aside to be put away. She reached for a bed sheet. When she struggled with it, Helen grasped the other corners and they shook it out firmly.

"Bringing up Elinor on your own and pretending that there's nothing better in the world," Helen stated, exasperated, as they folded the sheet in half lengthwise. "Refusing to walk out with anybody because Michael hurt you. Struggling along and not saying a word to anyone about it." The cloth popped noisily between them as they shook it again.

"That's a little harsh," Edith protested. "I'm not on my own - I have you and Tom, and Signora Rossi." She stepped forwards, folding the sheet in half again, before relieving Helen of her burden and setting it on top of the other folded items. "Men are more trouble than they're worth. I have responsibilities, Helen!"

"I know," her friend acknowledged. "But you have to be responsible towards yourself, too. Would it be so bad to marry Sir Anthony?"

Edith paused, one of Elinor's dresses lying forgotten in her hands. "No," she murmured at last. "It wouldn't be bad at all."

Helen let out an triumphant half-cry. "Then why don't you want it to happen? Don't you love him?"

Edith sat down carefully, looking at her knees. Helen stood quietly, waiting for an answer. "Helen…" she murmured at last, in a low voice, "I love him so much it hurts." She hit her chest for emphasis. "And that's why I can't let myself think what it would be like to marry him and have him love me back. Because if it didn't happen - and it probably won't - then I wouldn't be able to cope anymore. It would be the last straw."

Helen sank down into the chair next to her. "I had no idea." She reached out and covered one of Edith's hands with her own. "Oh, darling, I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

Edith reached into her pocket and removed her handkerchief, swiping briskly at her eyes. "Well, now you do. Are you going out with Eddie tonight?" Eddie Finch was another photographer, who had quite literally swept Helen off her feet at a nightclub a year or so ago, when her heel had snapped on the dance floor, twisting her ankle in the process. They had become a firm couple, and if Edith suspected that their relationship had progressed far beyond dinner, dancing and polite pecks on the cheek, she had enough delicacy not to mention it to Helen.

Sensing the end of this particular conversation, Helen wisely decided to move on. She shook her head. "No. We had a row this morning - and I told him to chuck it."

Edith looked up, surprised to say the least. She had met Eddie several times, and liked him. He was clever, enterprising, ambitious, and he had appeared to adore her friend. "A row? Whatever was it about?"

Helen rolled her eyes. "I found him at his studio getting a bit _over friendly_ with the daughter of one of his clients. Some Marquis's daughter. Blonde hair, cut-glass accent - little bitch. Sorry, Edith, present company excepted, of course."

Edith grinned, feeling much better. "Of course." She frowned - Helen had been so kind to her; the favour had to be repaid. "Will you be alright? I think there's a concert on the wireless later, if you'd like some company."

Helen shook her head. "Oh, I'll be fine. You know me, I bounce back quick as anything. Thanks anyway." Her lip quirked mischievously. "In fact I'm rather glad - now Eddie's out, I don't have to feel guilty the next time Harry Devlin starts giving me the glad eye."

They both began to giggle - and didn't stop for a very long time.


	8. Chapter 8

The following Wednesday was Elinor's fifth birthday and Edith had decided to hold a small tea party at the flat. Tom and Sybbie were there, of course, as well as a few of Elinor's friends from the surrounding area; Helen came too, bringing her Brownie - 'to get a picture of the birthday girl', and Signora Rossi, her daughter and her son-in-law dropped by to leave some food and a funny little marionette puppet that had belonged to Signora Rossi as a child, and which fascinated Elinor every time she visited.

In the midst of the organised chaos, Edith heard a knock at the door and hurried to answer it. Anthony stood there, dressed, as was his custom, in a loose tweed suit and slim tie. His jacket was slung carelessly over his arm, and he stood there in just his waistcoat, smiling down at her. "Not too late, am I?" he asked cheerfully.

"N-not at all," she managed, still struck by the sight of his long arms in their crisp white shirt-sleeves, and stood back to let him in. Elinor had come into the hall to investigate, and upon seeing Anthony, she raced over, arms wide for an embrace. Anthony caught her in a one-armed hug as she collided with him. Edith was struck with how natural they looked, and her heart ached for him, that he had never had the chance to be a father. "Many happy returns of the day, Miss Elinor," he said formally, kissing her hand, and she giggled. Edith reached for his coat and turned to hang it up as Anthony led Elinor into the living room.

"How old now?" Edith heard him ask as they moved away. And then, "Five? Goodness, you're becoming quite the young lady. And what a large party - your mama must have worked so hard, mustn't she?" Edith bit her lip; how difficult it was at times like these to stop herself from falling into a daydream, where everything had turned out right - where she had married Anthony, and where Elinor had been born into a true, loving family, with a papa who adored her as she deserved. All of a sudden, she was overcome and a few tears welled in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

When Edith returned to the living room a few minutes later, having stopped off in the bathroom to splash some cold water onto her tear-stained face, she found Tom and Anthony standing together, unsure of what to say to each other, as the children milled around, playing happily. Fortunately, Tom was less volatile now than he had once been, and after casting a look in Edith's direction and receiving her almost imperceptible nod of reassurance, he merely held out his hand and said, "Sir Anthony - it's been quite a while."

Relieved, Anthony shook it. "Mr Branson, how do you do?"

Tom gave what could be interpreted as a thin smile, and Edith crossed her fingers behind her back. She didn't particularly want Tom to become protectively rude today, especially not towards Anthony. "Very well, thank you."

"And your daughter?" Anthony was wonderful at small-talk - it was something which had made her unspeakably frustrated when they had become engaged. Any moment now they would be onto the weather, and she would be safe!

Tom relaxed noticeably and gestured to where Sybbie and Elinor were running their fingers along the keys of the piano. "Oh, thriving. And when she gets together with our Ellie… sometimes we have trouble keeping up with them, don't we, Edith?"

Edith, who had been marvelling at the sight of her brother-in-law and her dear friend chatting away together, blinked and then nodded. "Oh, yes. Quite. Won't you have some tea, Anthony? Or would you prefer lemonade?"

The party went off very well after that - the adults chatted and milled around ensuring that the younger guests had everything they required, as they played 'pass the parcel' and 'pin the tail on the donkey.' After cake and a rousing chorus of 'Happy Birthday', Edith sat the children down in front of a tray she had covered with a tea-towel.

"Now, I've put lots of things on the tray, and you'll all have a minute or so to look at them, and then I'll cover them up again. And we'll see how many of them you can remember. The one who remembers the most things wins a prize." And from the pocket of her cardigan, she drew out a bar of Fry's Chocolate Cream. Anthony smiled - she had the children thoroughly in her thrall, and he realised that the memory game was the perfect quiet activity to settle the children down before they went home. Parents began to arrive just as the game was winding down, and Edith and Elinor stood at the door, handing out a small paper bag to each child, which contained a slice of birthday cake. Tom was stacking plates at the table and Anthony hurried to help him.

Afterwards came the opening of gifts. Edith had bought Elinor a new coat which Sybbie confided to Anthony that her cousin had been admiring in a shop window last week. Tom and Sybbie handed over a paper package which, when opened, was seen to contain a new set of drawing pencils and a sketching pad.

And then Anthony went outside to collect the brown box he had left unnoticed on the hall table. "I understand that when one attends birthday parties, it's customary to bring a gift of some sort," he smiled softly as he presented it to the birthday girl.

Edith looked up at him with surprised eyes. "Oh, Anthony, you needn't have bothered."

"I wanted to," he replied firmly.

"But the money…" she murmured helplessly, eyes wide.

"Don't worry. I was up at Locksley on Saturday, clearing out the attics, and I found some things which used to belong to my sister. I thought Elinor might appreciate them."

Edith lifted a querying brow and murmured, "Thank Sir Anthony, Elinor."

"Thank you!" She hurried to open the box, and Tom and Sybbie gathered around to watch, but Edith was forced to attend to what Anthony was saying.

"I noticed that her dolls' house lacked some things rather essential for the comfort of its inhabitants," he smiled crookedly and Edith looked down to find her daughter carefully examining a tiny set of china, some miniature bookshelves (complete with tiny books) and -

"A gramophone?" Edith asked curiously. It was true - a doll-size gramophone. Anthony blushed.

"Ah, that wasn't my sister's, I'll admit. My odd job man was doing some carpentry for me last week and he rather enjoys fine projects. Luckily, the experiment was a success and, well…" He shrugged, sheepishly. Edith's heart melted at the thoughtfulness of the gift.

"It was very kind of you. I don't know how to repay - "

"It's a gift, Edith. Repayment not necessary. Besides - " He gestured to where Elinor and Sybbie were happily playing - " - her joy is payment enough."

* * *

"Lady Edith Crawley, sir."

Anthony looked up from the papers spread across his desk. "Ah, thank you Figgins." He rose from his desk to greet his lovely companion with a hearty handshake; he had learnt now not to attempt to kiss her fingertips as he once might have - Edith was a professional woman and liked to be treated as such. "How are you? Do excuse me for a moment, I'm just finishing a letter."

"Of course," smiled the lady and wandered to the window. "You have a lovely view of the gardens."

Anthony, busily scratching away with his pen, did not answer her for a moment, but when he did, his voice was sad. "I never really look out of the window, here. When my late wife was alive, she would spend hours sitting in that garden when we were in London. Once she died, it always seemed… empty without her."

Edith blushed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

He waved a hand reassuringly. "Not at all. How were you to know?" That was the Anthony of old - eminently reasonable in all matters not concerning their relationship. He had finished the letter; hastily casting sand over it to dry the ink, he folded it and slipped it into an envelope, which he had already addressed. Moving across the room, he opened the door and appeared to be speaking to one of the staff. "Ensure that this goes by the evening collection - it's rather urgent."

He reappeared in the room and shut the door behind him, casting off the air of businesslike efficiency that had always reassured and excited her by turns. "Now, what might Lady Edith Crawley want with me this morning?"

The words were spoken jovially, but she still raised her eyebrows. "I keep telling you not to use my title. I haven't been a lady for a very long time now, Anthony."

Gallantly, he kissed her hand, making a judicious exception to his new rule. "You were born with a right to the title, and I choose to believe that you have done nothing to have that right revoked," he insisted gently. Then, searching her face with his eyes, he conceded, frowning slightly, "If it makes you uncomfortable, then I shall stop, but - "

She lifted a hand to silence him. "It doesn't make me feel uncomfortable. Unworthy, perhaps."

"Why 'unworthy'?" The question was deliberately offered in a bland tone of voice, showing nothing of his knowledge. Edith shot him a look. At least he had the good grace to blush. "All right," he murmured quietly. "We'll say no more about it - Edith."

She relaxed and reached into her handbag. "I only really came to deliver Elinor's thank you letter for her birthday present, but when I said I was coming, she made me promise to ask you to come to dinner again soon."

Anthony grinned bashfully. "Well, actually, I was hoping that you and Elinor would come here to dine this time. I rather think I ought to return the favour, don't you?"

Taken aback, Edith blinked, and then her mouth split into a wide, surprised smile. "How kind of you! We'd be delighted."

He squeezed her hand, pleased. "Splendid! How does Wednesday evening suit? What's the usual time for a five year old's bedtime these days?"

"About half-past six," Edith smiled, "but Elinor won't complain if I stretch it for an hour or so just for one evening."

Anthony laughed - after several evenings spent with Edith and Elinor, he was well aware of how stubborn young Miss Crawley could be when it came to bedtime - and

"Then shall we say a quarter to six? This Wednesday?"

"Perfect. Elinor will be so very excited."

"Is there anything I should request Mrs Cox not to cook?"

She smiled at the thoughtfulness of such a man, who had never had children of his own, and yet could so quickly grasp the problems attending bringing them into society. "Pork tends not to agree with her. And nothing too sweet for pudding, please - she'll only be awake for the rest of the night."

"Of course." It suddenly struck him that parents all over England spoke in such a way to each other about their children. If he had not been so very foolish - But no, he must not think about that! Edith would be able to read it in his face and then, why she would probably run a mile.

They stood looking at each other for a moment, neither with anything to say, and then Edith shook herself. "Well, I really mustn't take up any more of your time. I'm sure you're very busy. Goodbye until Wednesday."

And Anthony stepped forwards and dropped a delicate kiss on her forehead. "Until Wednesday, my dear."

Edith blushed, but her eyes were smiling. And if there was an extra spring in her step on the way home, why - it was nothing that could not be explained away by the sunshine and the breeze and the Gershwin tune that was playing in her head.

* * *

There was, and always had been, something in the Strallan blood that made them gravitate rather towards small, informal parties than large, grand gatherings. It was one of the things that had drawn Edith to Anthony in the old days, when he had been so glad to take a relaxed luncheon with her before the fire in Locksley's library, instead of sitting formally at opposite ends of the table in the dining room. So it still was. When Anthony's driver delivered Edith and Elinor safely to Upper Belgrave Street, Anthony was hovering in the hall, pocket watch in hand. The chauffeur knocked on the door for them, and then touched his hat. "Good evening, my lady, miss."

"Good evening, Waters," Edith smiled. Elinor waved as the chauffeur returned back to the car; she was bouncing from one foot to another after the unexpected treat of a car journey through London, and the excitement of wearing her new frock. They turned as the door opened; Edith expected to see Figgins standing there, but it was Anthony himself, in simple black tie. Edith swallowed. _I agree with you. Sometimes it's nice to be informal…_

"May I take your coat, Lady Edith?" Figgins was at her shoulder, holding out his hands for the garment. His face was expressionless - Figgins was almost as good a butler as Carson - but there was an edge of stiffness in his voice that she had never heard before and it was with a somewhat subdued 'thank you' that Edith allowed him to help her.

A footman Edith didn't know opened the drawing room door for them, and as they passed through Anthony murmured to her, "Please excuse Figgins - he worries that I'm becoming disreputable in my old age."

Edith's face brightened and she allowed herself a soft giggle. "How shocking for him! And you're wearing black tie, too - no wonder he hears the approaching rattle of the guillotine!"

"What's a guillotine?" asked Elinor, tugging on Anthony's hand. Anthony's expression - resembling nothing so much as a rabbit caught in the sight of a hunter's gun - just made Edith laugh harder.

They spent the dinner in pleasant conversation - all three of them. Anthony delighted in including Elinor in his talk with Edith, explaining things to her about his travels in Europe, and telling her funny stories about her mother. Edith listened with a tolerant smile, occasionally interjecting laughingly in her defence, but to tell the truth, she was enjoying too much this sense of domesticity to be truly indignant - even when he described vividly to Elinor the time she had driven him so quickly in the Rolls that his hat had blown off and been captured by a flock of sheep.

At last, Edith set aside her napkin and rose. "If you'll excuse me for a moment…" Anthony and Elinor watched her leave, Anthony attempting to hide the fact that he was admiring her figure in her pretty evening dress.

Elinor smiled at Sir Anthony. "Mummy laughs more now," she confided seriously.

He focused his attention on her, curious. "Does she?" he replied lightly. "I hadn't noticed."

Elinor nodded solemnly. "I think you make her laugh," she added, with a wisdom beyond her years. "And she isn't sad anymore, either."

His eyes sharpened. If Edith had had such troubles, it was surely at least part his fault. He forced his face to retain its mask of polite interest. "Did she used to be very sad?" he asked, in an offhand tone of voice.

"She used to cry sometimes, at night. I don't think she knew I could hear her - but I did."

Anthony nodded, feeling as though he had been punched in the stomach and then forced a reassuring smile. "Well, Miss Elinor, I promise on my honour as a gentleman to do everything I can so that your mother never cries again."

The door opened again behind them, and they turned to see Edith. "Well, what have you two been plotting?" she asked brightly.

Elinor opened her mouth, but Anthony got there first. "I was just going to tell Elinor about a certain young woman who once accidentally shut herself in a broom cupboard, trying to make her way from my library to the drawing room…"


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: And now, just when everything was going swimmingly...**

* * *

The next week was a busy one for Edith. Not only was she close to finishing the first draft of her manuscript - much improved by Anthony's close reading and constructive criticism - but she had been offered some French translation work for a publisher friend of Tom's, and to top it all off, she had an inkling that Elinor was coming down with a sore throat. So perhaps she could be excused a little carelessness; for carelessness it was, when there was a knock at the door one morning, and she answered it without checking who was behind it. She was expecting Anthony - who else could it be?

It was not Anthony.

It was not even Tom.

Standing there, the same old familiar self-satisfied smirk playing over his face, was Michael Gregson.

Edith let out a little cry of surprise, and tried to shut the door again. But too late; Michael had wedged his foot into the gap and gripped the frame firmly with his hand, forcing the door - and Edith - backwards. She stumbled - and made the fatal mistake of letting go of the door. Michael strode inside. "Hello, Edith. It's been a long time." He had not changed at all; she had thought she had forgotten him, but as the thought rushed through her head, she realised that she hadn't. Her stomach swooped sickeningly and she pressed a hand to her forehead.

"Not long enough," she snapped. "Get out of my flat."

"_Your_ flat? Ours, surely, darling. Have you forgotten so quickly?" The smirk was still there and Edith couldn't believe that she had ever been seduced by this false charm. How had she ever been so _foolish_?

"You made that impossible," she whispered.

Michael raised an eyebrow, confused, and then his face cleared. "Of course." He glanced around him, as though searching for something. "Where _is_ the brat?" His voice was cool and almost bored. Edith's lips pursed and she was glad that Elinor wasn't at home. Michael Gregson had no part in her life - he had forfeited that right when he had abandoned them.

"_Our daughter_ is out with her uncle," she replied at last. "At least _he_ cares about her well-being."

To her surprise, Michael began to chuckle. "Funny you should mention that." He began to remove his hat and coat, hanging them up on pegs. Edith stepped forwards to stop him - he was _not_ staying! - but he shot her a menacing, quelling look and she felt herself shrink backwards. Michael had not been consistently violent towards her, but there was something in that look - and in the remembrance of their last night together - that chilled Edith.

"What do you mean?" she asked. If she screamed, there was a slim chance that Helen downstairs, or Signora Rossi upstairs, would hear. At the moment, Michael was not being particularly threatening, and Edith wanted to know what had caused him to walk back into her flat and her life after four years.

Michael did not answer her question immediately. Instead, he drew out his cigarette case and lit up. Smoothly, he offered the case to Edith, but she shook her head tightly. "How is she?" he asked in an off-hand voice.

"She's _happy_," Edith emphasised. "She's well-cared for, she'll be starting school later this year, she doesn't want for anything." She suddenly, dizzyingly, understood what Alice must have felt like when she fell down the rabbit-hole. This was perhaps the most bizarre thing that had ever happened to her.

Michael carelessly shook ash from the end of his cigarette, pondering her words; Edith winced. "I've been replaced then, I take it?" he asked archly. He reached for her left hand, and she was too late to dodge. He held it up, inspecting the long, slender fingers. "No ring, though. Fallen back into your old ways, Edie?" His voice was still light and almost pleasant, but Edith was in no mood to humour his oddities. She hadn't even wanted to do that when they had been a couple.

"After my experiences with you? Don't be absurd." She would choke to death rather than mention Anthony to Michael! "Leave me alone." She shook his fingers from her wrist.

Michael tutted. "A child needs two parents, Edith. Or do you want her to turn out like you?"

There was a moment of stunned silence and then Michael felt the harsh sting of Edith's hand across his face.

"You have no right to interfere in Elinor's life - _or mine_." Her voice was shaking with anger. She had heard the insults plenty of times before, but they had never affected her so badly. Perhaps Michael's hypocrisy had bitten deeper than the aspersions he had cast on her morality. "Get out, Michael. Now."

He chuckled richly and the sound made her shiver. Once that laugh had made her melt with happiness - now it scared her beyond measure. "Oh, my dear Edith, you mistake the matter. Legally, I'm still her father and I'm going to apply for the charge of her."

"And what court would grant it to you?" But she sounded far more confident than she felt. Despite having a solicitor for a brother-in-law, Edith had never had anything more than a shaky, hazy knowledge of English law - a fact which, at this moment, she was deeply regretting. She had no idea whether, as a father, Michael would have more of a claim on Elinor than she did. It wouldn't surprise her.

"Lizzie died six months ago," he announced, and there was not a trace of guilt or sorrow in his voice. He almost sounded as though he were relishing his 'loss.' But then, it had been a long time since Edith had believed that he had ever loved his wife. In her darker moments, she had sometimes imagined that Michael had driven her into insanity - his behaviour had never made her confident in its being an impossible theory. "I've met someone else and I'm engaged to be married." Had Violet Crawley not drilled a graceful impassivity of expression into her granddaughters as children, Edith's mouth would have dropped open. In any case, it wouldn't have mattered. Michael was too busy casting a disparaging glance around the shabby little hall, from the scuffed skirting board and fading wallpaper to the small muddy footprints by the front door, left when Elinor had dashed in from the park that morning and then out again with Tom moments later. At last his gaze returned to Edith's face and his lip curled sneeringly. "What court would choose for Elinor to stay in a squalid little flat with her unmarried, _amoral_ mother, when her prosperous, upstanding father could provide her with a good home, a loving stepmother and a fine education?"

Edith's hands were shaking. So was her voice. "You wouldn't dare."

He stepped closer, leering at her, and Edith realised that he was actually enjoying tormenting her. "Wouldn't I?" he asked lightly, but there was an undertone of steel there that made her shudder inwardly.

"You're forgetting, Michael - the English legal system isn't so naive as to believe that Elinor was a result of an immaculate conception. How are you planning to maintain an impression of upstanding morality in the face of _that_?"

"Easily. _You_ are forgetting _my_ situation, as it was. It won't be difficult - I was drowning in grief after watching my darling wife's sanity disintegrate before my eyes, and then you arrived in my office, young, bright, intelligent…" Michael smirked, and put on a pleading voice. "I was seduced, my lord. Trapped by my loneliness. I tried to do my best by Lady Edith and the child, but she made it simply impossible. She forced me to leave her and I have reason to believe that our child's welfare has suffered because of it."

And then something happened that made all of Edith's resolve and courage crack. She knew well enough what vile depths Michael's charm veiled, but a court would not. Michael Gregson would appear in court immaculately dressed, handsome, charming, utterly reasonable, repenting of his sins, determined to make amends… Edith was suddenly overpowered by the realisation of her own inadequacy. She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry with fear. "Michael, please, she's all that I have! You can't take her away from me!"

He had her backed into a corner of the hall, arms barring her escape route. One hand reached up to brush a curl of her hair away. She flinched. "Cheer up, Edith," he murmured, and she could feel his breath whispering against her cheek. Her stomach churned. "If you're good and toe the line, I might allow you to see her once every few years, when I've gained custody."

"Michael…"

He smirked. "You never know - without Elinor, you might find some man willing to marry you. You're still very pretty, sweetheart - and some men prefer sluts." Her hand wavered at her side and he grasped her wrist, twisting it painfully. "Oh, no - not again, my dear." His tone was light, almost playful - an uncle chiding a wilful niece who had misbehaved. And how ironic it was - to have the same word thrown at her that she had once relished using against Mary!

She let out a hiss of pain. "Michael, please, you're hurting me," she whispered.

His lip curled, but his eyes were cold. He released her and stepped away. "Don't worry - I'll show myself out."

He pulled the door open and left. Edith remained where she was until she had heard his footsteps recede down the steps and then she walked slowly to the kitchen, rubbing her wrist. Once there, she filled the kettle and set it to boil. While her hands were busy, she could ignore the panic that was brimming in her heart, choking her, causing her eyes to blur with tears -

There came a brisk knocking at the door and Edith dropped the teacup she was holding. Had Michael come back? "Oh, go away!" she shouted tearfully. But the voice which answered her was entirely different from the one she had been expecting.

"Edith?" It was Anthony.

She got up and opened the door. He stood there, frowning in concern. Edith suddenly became aware of her appearance - mussed hair, pale face, shaking hands, tear stained cheeks - and ducked her head, stepping back to let him in. His hands came to rest gently on her upper arms, holding her in place so he could inspect her, looking for clues to her distress. "Whatever has happened? Edith - ?"

The feel of him was completely different to that of Michael, but still she could not bear to be held just now. She shook herself free. "Oh, please, don't ask! I have no right to drag you into my troubles." She turned away and heard Anthony shut the door.

"My dear, you have every right," he murmured softly. "Please, tell me what's happened." His hand hovered at her lower back and he guided her into the sitting room and into a chair, before taking the sofa himself.

Edith buried her face into her hands, out of shame or sorrow she could not say, and her words came out in a muffled rush. "Michael called on me this morning."

"Michael? Michael Gregson? Your…" He stopped, flushing a little. "Elinor's father?"

She nodded. "Yes. His wife has died, and he's engaged to be married to someone in America. He wants Elinor to go to live with him."

"_What_?" Anthony's shocked whisper finally made her look up.

"I can't say that I'd blame any court for handing her over to Michael, really," she replied frankly, but her voice shook even so. "He'll be married, he's prosperous, he can offer her everything. Against that, I'm just a fallen woman, with a tiny flat, little income, and no place in the world. He's right, Anthony - maybe Elinor _would_ be happier with her father."

His face crinkled in sympathy. "I can't believe that. My dear, she adores you."

"Oh, you're being so kind to me, and I can't imagine why." She looked up at him, clear brown eyes staring honestly into his own blue ones. "You must despise me for the way I've behaved," she whispered. Anthony had always thought so much of her, believed that she would hold herself to the same high standards of honour and decorum and _morality_ to which he held himself. To find her unmarried and with a child must have been a great blow to his opinion of her, however well he had managed to hide it. Edith didn't blame him - in the first few months after Elinor's birth, in the face of Michael's indifference and her family's icy disapproval, she herself had felt very little joy in her situation. The remaining sparks of the thrill of disobedience and daring she had felt at taking up with Michael had fizzled out, and she had only been conscious of a deep, prickling sense of shame and hopelessness. As Elinor grew and Michael became less important, the shame had faded; Edith was essentially a positive person, and once she had got used to the idea of her daughter as a sentient being, she had made the best of things and, to her immense surprise, found a renewal of joy in it all. But Anthony would have no escape from his disappointment, as she had had.

"Despise you? Despise you for grasping at happiness where you could, after I treated you so abominably?" Emphatically, he stated, "If I did despise you, then I would no longer have the right to call myself a gentleman."

She gave a shy half-smile. "You've always been that," she reassured him. Somehow, his presence comforted and steadied her - her breathing had eased and she was no longer shaking. She couldn't quite put her finger on what it was that made her feel so secure; his voice, perhaps, or that sensible clean scent that always seemed to hang about him. Or perhaps it was the calm methodical way he had of working his way through a problem, learnt all those years ago at Cambridge. Even now, he was frowning slightly in concentration, trying to help.

And then his eyes fell on her wrist; too late, she realised that Michael's fingers had left their mark. Hastily, she tried to cover it with her other hand, but Anthony gently grasped the injured limb and examined it. Then, in that steady tone that always meant he was trying desperately to keep his temper, he asked, "Did he do this to you?"

There was no point in being untruthful. "Yes."

His face darkened. "My God… did he try to - to _force _you?"

"No!" she yelped, alarmed. "No, nothing like that. I… I tried to strike him. He stopped me."

"What had he said?" Anthony questioned softly.

She took a deep breath. "He said… that if I didn't have Elinor any more, it would be easier for me to find a man to marry. He said that some men… some men prefer sluts."

A muscle in Anthony's cheek twitched, but it was the only sign that he was angry. "You aren't… what he said you are." His voice was stiff and she could tell that he was struggling to hold onto his self-control. But it seemed that even in such a situation as this, Anthony would not use language any more scandalous than was acceptable in a drawing room.

"Couldn't your parents help?" he asked at last. "Surely they wouldn't want you to lose your daughter?" Edith grimaced at the mention of Lord and Lady Grantham. They had not been nearly so accepting as Anthony had been. She supposed she could write to her grandmother in America, but there was only so much Mrs Levinson could do. It was bad enough as it was, for her to be caught between her daughter and her granddaughter, without being pulled into a legal wrangle in a different country as well.

"I'm rather _persona non grata_ at Downton," she explained lightly. "It was bad enough when I moved into Michael's flat, but when I wrote to tell them that I was pregnant, Papa wrote back saying that I had ruined myself utterly in his eyes and that I could sink no lower. I was asked to refrain from communicating with them in the future. And I haven't spoken with my parents since."

"How beastly!"

She raised her eyebrows at him. "Was it really? If you had a daughter, Anthony, and if that daughter so lowered herself as to consent to live in sin with a married man, what would you do?"

She had been expecting him to hesitate - to admit that he would have behaved the same way. Not for the first time, he surprised her. "I would try to persuade her that the course she had taken, while perhaps being the only one she believed available to her, was not the right one. I would not abandon her to her inevitable fate."

"And if she persisted in that course?" she pressed.

He looked up at her, his piercingly blue eyes boring into hers. "Then I would try to understand, and to make sure that she always had a place in my home and my affections."

She sighed. "I was never Papa's favourite person, Anthony. I expect it came as rather a relief to him to have an excuse to cast me off."

"That's a little harsh, surely. Edith, he is, after all, your father. If he had not cared for your happiness, then he would have made no move to prevent - " He stopped, embarrassed. Edith rescued him.

"To prevent our wedding? Anthony, Papa tried to prevent our wedding because it was unconventional and would cause talk in the county. He disapproved of my decision for the simple reason that it was not his, and because he could not imagine my being happy with a life only I had chosen." It had taken her a long time to realise this, but when she had, it had lessened the pain of separation from her father considerably. Anthony, however, had clearly never seen this side of the question. For a moment, he looked rather startled.

"Don't you speak to any of your family, then? But - Mr Branson…" He didn't quite know how to finish the sentence, and instead busied himself in brushing a fleck of dust from his trousers.

Edith smiled and flapped a hand. "Oh, of course Tom disobeyed orders. It's partly the reason why he left Downton, although he'd never admit as much. Matthew writes to me occasionally, to make sure that Elinor and I don't want for anything. I've no idea if Mary knows that he does it. And my grandmother, my maternal grandmother, writes and sends packages for Elinor. She's been awfully good to us."

They sat in silence for a while, Anthony absorbing what Edith had told him, and then he asked, "What will you do now, then?"

"Contest Michael's claims, I suppose. I doubt it will be easy, being unmarried, but…" She shrugged.

Anthony's face sharpened. "Would being married help, do you suppose?" he asked, in an off-hand voice which was greatly at odds with his expression.

"Perhaps. It would give stability to my situation in any case - or at least the appearance of it - and - " She suddenly realised what he meant and stopped, gaping in shock. "Anthony, you can't _possibly_ be suggesting - "

"Why not?" he challenged, interrupting her. "It was my - my cowardice which set you on this path, why should I not be the one to help you out of it?" He was staring at with the utmost seriousness in his eyes. "Edith, why can you not marry me?"


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: I'm utterly overwhelmed by all the lovely, long reviews for the last chapter. Three-quarters of the fun of writing in this fandom is receiving the intelligent, thoughtful, constructive and wonderfully supportive comments of the other Andith shippers who are kind enough to read my efforts. Thanks all! And now - our pair have some talking to do...**

* * *

For a long moment there was silence, with just the ticking of the mantlepiece clock to reassure them that time was not standing still in the face of Anthony's extraordinary proposal. "I don't think you understand what you're offering," she croaked finally.

"I'm offering you a solution to a problem," he replied reasonably. She raised an eloquent eyebrow; he flushed and coughed a little. "I wouldn't… I wouldn't expect anything from you," he added hastily. "You could live where you chose. Love, romance - I would place no constraints of that sort on your life. As my wife, I'd make sure you had an independent income and my support in any future literary endeavours." There, it was out, and to his relief it didn't sound as ridiculous as he had feared it would. Marriages had been made for less pure motives than this, after all. If he could only help Edith, atone for what he had done to her, to her life…

Edith had listened to this speech in silence, but now her eyes widened in understanding. "You're quite serious," she breathed.

Anthony nodded. "I don't believe I'm a difficult man, Edith. Not.. not unpleasant, or cruel. I don't have any vices - apart from the odd whisky after dinner - and we get along together, don't we? At least, I hope we do." He gave a half-smile, inviting her to share his joke, but she was too distracted.

Edith reached for his hand and held it in both of hers, frowning. "Wait," she murmured. "Let me think." She tried to imagine what it would be like - to be Lady Strallan, as she had once dreamed. She and Elinor would live in London at Anthony's townhouse. Anthony would not want to 'make a nuisance of himself', she supposed; most of his time would be spent at Locksley. Perhaps he would come down to see her every few weeks, for afternoon tea, or dinner at the Savoy. They would spend Christmas and Easter together for appearances' sake. There would be a comfortable, even generous income - she would be free to focus on Elinor, and her writing. Anthony would be a good, if distant, husband. He would make sure that she and Elinor wanted for nothing. He would be a safe port in a storm - a steady, unwavering friend and limitless source of excellent advice. Many women would not have hesitated.

But Edith _did_. Because to be married to Anthony had been the dream of her young life, before everything had changed on a sunny May day seven years ago. To be married to Anthony and to live at Locksley and bear and raise his children and enjoy all the advantages of being the wife of a good, honourable, kind man - these had been her wishes. To marry him now, and know that it was all a _facade_, a front, a pretence… Edith did not know how she would bear it. And there were Anthony's freedoms and wishes to consider, too - not to mention how to explain it all to Elinor!

Tentatively, he added, "I might not be exactly what you once wished for yourself, but I believe we might do well together, given the chance. Let me help you, Edith. No court would ever suggest taking Elinor from you when you have just wed a baronet, even an old, obscure one like me."

Her refusal caught in her throat. Losing Elinor would be terrible. She would be utterly broken, she knew that. And would it be so bad, to be Lady Strallan? Anthony was right; he was not cruel, or even mildly unpleasant. All the things that had made her accept his first proposal were still true; he was kind, honourable, courteous… She could not believe she was considering a marriage made only for her own convenience, but she was. Many parents had done worse things for their children.

At last, she looked up at him, almost blindly, and nodded. "All… all right. I will. Anthony, I will marry you."

He breathed a deep sigh, almost of relief. "Good, good." He coughed. "Well… we ought to arrange some things. Where would you like… like to…?"

"A registry office, I suppose," she murmured. "I haven't been very devout over the past few years. But… I rather think we should do it sooner rather than later. I don't know how quickly Michael intends to make his claim."

Anthony nodded. "Of course. Whatever you wish. I'll arrange for a special licence tomorrow. Ought I to put a notice in the _Times_?"

Edith ran her hands through her hair, letting out a somewhat hysterical laugh. "A notice in the _Times_? Oh, Anthony - " And then the tears were running down her cheeks, uncontrollably. Suddenly he was next to her, rubbing his hand across her back in soothing motions. "My dear, whatever is it?"

Edith let out a choked sob. "To hear you speak as if this is a normal arrangement… it reminds me of what we're doing and… It's just - I always promised myself that this wouldn't happen to me. That was always more Mary's style. I used to look at her and think that she would marry any man as long as he had a decent fortune, a few acres of land and a tolerably handsome face. Sybil always wanted someone who'd indulge her freedoms. And I… I just wanted someone who would pay attention to me for more than five minutes after either of them had walked into a room."

Anthony didn't know what to say. He himself had been guilty of being drawn to Mary's beauty, he knew - at least for the first evening or so of his acquaintance with the Crawley girls. Edith shrugged at last. "I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I never expected myself to be so calculating when it came to something like this. I never expected to have the chance." She looked up at him, and pointed out, self-deprecatingly, "I never was over-burdened with marriage proposals, you know."

Anthony bit his lip. "Edith… if this isn't what you want… if carrying on with this will make you hate yourself, then call it all off now. We'll find a different way to keep Elinor, together. I'll do all I can to help you."

Her eyes filled with gratitude. "Thank you. It's sweet of you to say so. But we both know that this is my best chance - _our_ best chance. I would do anything for Elinor, Anthony. _Anything_." The set expression on her face, despite the tears, convinced him and his heart swelled with admiration for the forthright, clear-sighted woman she had become.

"Very well. I'm entirely at your service." He smiled tentatively, and was relieved when Edith responded in kind.

* * *

By the time the clock struck one, Edith and Anthony had stumbled their way through the preliminary arrangements. Anthony had, as Edith had predicted, offered to decamp to Locksley after the wedding; Edith, on reflection, had put her foot down. "Really, Anthony, I can't turn you out of your own home. I'm - I'm sure we can manage." He had silently conceded, but it was with some reservations; how difficult would it be to keep his earlier promises, living under the same room as Edith? Oddly enough, he decided, maintaining a chaste relationship was going to be the easy part; Anthony had never been the type of man who pursued unwilling women. No, he had given his word to Edith on that score, that she would be left entirely to her own devices. She required safety, stability and a sense of security, and for that, she had to trust him implicitly in these matters.

What would be far more difficult to keep would be his vow of non-interference in the rest of her personal life. If she met another man, would he be able to stop himself from envying the lucky young fellow? Would he be able to pretend that he had no interest in the possibility of Edith - Edith, who would be his wife - giving herself to another, heart, soul and quite possibly body, too?

"Anthony?" Edith asked softly, drawing him back to the present.

He forced a smile. "I'm sorry, my dear, I was quite somewhere else for a moment. What were you saying?"

Her face had fallen. "You're having second thoughts." She swallowed. "Of course, I quite understand - "

Anthony squeezed her hand firmly. "No. What a cad I'd be if I jilted you!" And then his eyes widened as he realised what he had said. "Edith - " But too late - Edith had realised as well. For a moment, there was silence, while Anthony desperately tried to think of something, _anything_, that he could say to make it better - and then Edith's mouth crinkled deeply at the corners and she exploded into laughter. Her shoulders shook, her mouth opened wide. It was a true, tear-inducing, uncontrollable fit of giggles, and Anthony drew back slightly, startled.

At last, Edith managed to recover herself and wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. "Thank you for that," she smiled. "Do you know the problem with people like us, Anthony? Too often, we forget to laugh at ourselves. And, when you think about it, it's all terribly funny. You jilt me at the altar, and then seven years later propose to me again to protect me from the odd advances of my daughter's father."

Anthony smiled somewhat uncertainly. "Perhaps you're right. Still, it was in extremely bad taste, I think. The last thing I would wish to do is to hurt you, my dear - "

Edith held up a hand. "Please, don't worry about that. I have a remarkably thick skin, Anthony. If we are to marry, and live together, then we really cannot be forever treading on eggshells. We've been such good friends recently - I don't want that to change."

There was the sound of a key in the door - Tom was back with Sybbie and Elinor. Edith got up and went into the hall to greet them, leaving Anthony alone in the sitting room. "Nor do I, sweet one," he murmured to himself. "Nor do I."

The rest of the afternoon passed off surprisingly well. Perhaps Edith was a little quiet, but the noise of the children, and Anthony's easy conversation about nothing in particular prevented it from becoming too obvious. At about five o'clock, he excused himself - he was dining with his sister and brother-in-law, and required time to prepare for the ordeal. Edith saw him to the front door. He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. "Goodbye, Edith. I'll begin to make the arrangements."

She smiled. "Yes. I'll see you tomorrow?"

He nodded and released her hand. "Of course."

He inclined his head and jogged down the steps. At the bottom, he turned, raised his hand to her in farewell and strode off down the street. Edith watched him out of sight and then slowly closed the door. Tom looked up at her from his game of marbles with Sybbie on the floor, and gave her an odd look. Edith ignored him.

It wasn't until a little while later, when the girls had gone to Elinor's room to play with the dolls' house, that Edith discovered exactly what Tom's looks had meant. She got up to make a cup of tea and he followed her into the kitchen. "Are you alright?" he asked, leaning against the dresser.

"Yes, of course, why shouldn't I be?" she asked him, filling the kettle with water.

Tom shrugged. "You look a bit distracted." Edith set the kettle on to boil. He frowned suddenly, as if a sudden thought had hit him. "Has Strallan said anything? If he has, I'll - "

Edith was quick to reassure him; Tom was hot-tempered still, especially where her feelings were concerned. "It isn't Anthony. I…" She sighed, and then admitted, "Michael visited me this morning."

"Michael? Michael _Gregson_?"

"No, Michael Collins," she snapped sarcastically. "And for Heavens' sake, keep your voice down." She jerked her head towards the wall, through which it was possible to hear the girls' voices as they played. "He wants to have Elinor."

"He's got a bloody nerve!" Tom exclaimed in an angry undertone. "Has he got a chance?"

"I don't know. Perhaps. His wife died six months ago and he's getting married in America."

Tom banged teaspoons down on the tray with unnecessary force. "And now he wants to play happy families with our lass? What can we do?"

"Speak to a solicitor, I suppose. Sir Anthony has offered to put me in touch with his man. And…" She took a deep breath. Here was the difficult part. She could almost hear Tom's inevitable explosion already. "And we discussed the matter, and we think, under the circumstances, that it mightn't be a bad idea if we married." Tom had gone white - with shock or anger, she wasn't sure - and seemed incapable of forming words. Edith took her chance, and rushed on. "Before you say anything, please don't scold me. And don't shout, either - I haven't said anything to Elinor yet. Just think."

Surprisingly, Tom followed her advice, although with difficulty. He took several deep breaths and then turned, hands on hips, to pace the tiny kitchen. Edith braced her hands on the counter behind her and watched him anxiously, biting her lip.

At last, he turned to face her. "All right. All right. Will being married help?"

Edith nodded silently. "Anthony seems to think so - and quite frankly I agree with him. It's an awful state of affairs, and if it were anyone else asking - if I were facing the loss of anyone else - "

Tom pursed his lips. "I don't like it," he stated. "You and Anthony Strallan - "

"When Anthony was courting me the first time, you liked him!" she protested heatedly. "You said he was different from all the other gentlemen you'd met!"

Tom's eyebrow quirked almost viciously. "When he was courting you the first time? Edith, you make it sound like he's courting you now! But he's not, is he? He's proposed for Elinor's sake. You know what you're doing, don't you? You're marrying a man for simple security - it's no different from marrying someone for their money!"

Edith pressed a hand to her forehead. "I know," she whispered at last, in her most conciliatory tone. "That's what it sounded like to me at first. But then I thought of what it would be like to lose Elinor, and I couldn't do it, Tom. It would break me. Next to that, what's a little discomfort?"

"Discomfort? _Discomfort_? Edie - we're talking about _marriage_! Joined together before man and God, to love, honour and obey for the rest of your lives! And _Anthony Strallan_, for God's sake!" He was almost squawking now, albeit in an undertone, and Edith winced. She had expected fireworks, of course, but not such a spectacular display as she was getting at the present moment.

"There are other ways of doing this, Edie," he said firmly, and she suddenly realised what he was about to do. She stepped back, but Tom had already seized her hand and was preparing to kneel on her kitchen floor. "Because I'd marry you - I'd marry you like a shot if it meant we could keep our girl here."

Gently, she made him get up. "Tom. It's terribly sweet of you, but I can't marry you. You know I can't, my dear."

"And why not?" he demanded.

"Because… oh, for a hundred reasons! We'd tear each other apart within a week, Tom, and you know it. We're too alike - both too stubborn, both with tempers. And you used to be married to my sister!"

"Sybil wouldn't mind!" Tom hastened to reassure her.

Edith let out an exasperated little laugh. "Oh, my darling, it isn't about her minding! It's about the fact that you were very much in love with her, and still are. You couldn't live in a marriage of convenience, Tom, not after what you had with my sister. I… I don't have anything to compare Anthony to - well, nothing except Michael, anyway, and I can assure you that Anthony is a vast improvement on that score."

Tom was pacing again. He ran a hand through his brown hair; really, Edith thought, he was beginning to look quite demented. He turned on her, and jabbed a finger into the air. "And another thing - has he forgotten what happened the last time he stood up in a church with you?"

"No," she replied solemnly. "I don't believe he ever will. But he has a reason for going through with it this time."

Tom's lip curled with disapproval. "You can't marry him!" he enunciated emphatically.

"Oh, so it's alright for me to marry you for convenience, but not Anthony Strallan?" Edith snorted.

He cast a dark look at the boiling kettle and folded his arms. "It wouldn't matter to you if _I_ had other women," Tom reminded her enigmatically.

"And what is _that_ supposed to mean?" Edith asked, indignantly.

"You're not in love with me," Tom replied dryly. "Any _eejit_ can see that you _are_ in love with Strallan, and if you married him and he carried on with someone else… you wouldn't like it much."

Edith drew herself up to her full height. "Anthony's an honourable man! When he marries me, he'll be faithful!"

Tom shrugged. "You know him better than I do. But could you bear it if he _did_ decide to have a mistress?"

Edith stared at him for a while in silence. A lump had developed in her throat, and she remembered Anthony's words as he had made his offer. _Love, romance - I would place no constraints of that sort on your life_. It wouldn't be unreasonable for him to expect the same considerations from her. A sudden sense of desolation swept through her. She had no right to dictate to Anthony what company he could and could not keep. But it didn't stop her heart from constricting painfully when she imagined Anthony kissing, embracing, perhaps making love to, another woman. "I - I - that's besides the point! It isn't any of my business!"

Tom's eyes were filled with doubt.


	11. Chapter 11

If Edith had been reluctant and anxious about informing Tom of her new situation, it was nothing to the worry lodged in Anthony's heart as he entered his sister's house that evening. It wasn't even as if Diana were stuffy or old-fashioned in any way - in fact, she was probably more modern than Anthony himself; rather, it was that, despite Anthony being the elder by almost ten years, he had always looked to his self-assured, social butterfly of a sister for advice and approval. It had been Diana who, after his failed wedding to Edith, had been the first of his guests to arrive back at Locksley, half-fuming, half-sympathetic, and suggested that he go away for a while.

Now, she greeted him with her customary peck on the cheek and squeeze of the hand, guiding him into the drawing room effortlessly. "You're late, darling," she informed him affectionately as she did so.

"Leave him be, Di," interjected Archie, Diana's husband. "Ignore her," he added to Anthony. "She's only just arrived downstairs herself."

Diana shrugged gracefully. "Well, if you two _insist_ on ganging up on me…"

Anthony forced a smile. "Not at all, my dear." He cleared his throat. "Look here, I have some news and it's something I rather ought to tell you before we settle down for the evening." Thank goodness it was only the three of them tonight - he wasn't sure he could have borne an evening of polite chit-chat with strangers, with the remembrance of such a strange day spent with Edith weighing on his heart, and without being at liberty to speak of it.

Diana sat up slightly, eyes sharper than they had been a few moments before. Archie didn't move, but his face crinkled slightly in concern. "Nothing… nothing I should worry about, surely?" asked Diana.

Anthony shook his head. "Not… _worry_, precisely. You know that I've been visiting with Lady Edith Crawley rather a lot recently? Well, what I didn't tell you is… well, that is to say that - "

Diana let out an exasperated half-sigh. "What you're about to tell us is that Edith Crawley used to be involved with her married editor at the _Sketch_ and that he fathered a child with her."

Anthony's mouth dropped open. Glancing across at Archie, he saw his own look mirrored in the other man's face. "But - but - _how did you find out?_" he asked at last, appalled.

Diana took a sip from her cocktail and set it down on the table before her. "Really, my dear boy, if you think I don't ask around about all of your friends then you're both terribly sweet and terribly naive."

"But you never mentioned it to me!" her brother protested, almost indignantly.

"Of course not," Diana replied in a matter-of-fact tone. "What would you have done if I had?" Anthony opened his mouth to give an answer, but Diana anticipated him. "You would have flown into a temper trying - most unnecessarily I may add - to defend Edith's honour, and I wouldn't have been able to get a word in edgeways for at least an hour."

Anthony looked blankly at her for a moment. "I don't understand."

Diana sighed impatiently. "I may check up on you from time to time, darling, but I _do_ trust your judgement. If you thought there was any danger in associating with Edith, then you wouldn't have done it. She always has meant a great deal to you, after all."

"Yes," Anthony murmured. "Yes, she has."

"Well, that's that, then," Diana concluded briskly. "Shall we go in?"

"No, just a moment," Anthony answered. "Edith having a child was only part of what I was going to tell you. You mentioned her former editor - her child's father… well, he visited Edith rather unexpectedly today, and informed her that he intended to apply for custody of his daughter. I called on her shortly after he'd left, and… there aren't the words to describe how she was when I found her. She was distraught, Diana. She was actually shaking from the reaction to seeing him - I haven't seen someone shake like that from fear since…" He trailed off, and his face took on that pinched, haunted look that Diana and Archie knew meant he was thinking of the War and the countless horrors he had witnessed during those years.

"I suppose that's only natural," Diana murmured softly. When Anthony looked up, she offered a wry half-smile. "I heard that he hadn't been very kind to her."

Anthony's lip curled. "'Not very kind to her'? Diana, the scoundrel brutalised her."

"He beat her?" asked Archie, in his calm, measured way. Diana had covered her mouth, a rare expression of shock. Women in happy marriages were invariably shocked by such matters.

Anthony stood up and began to pace, relieving his feelings. "Once. Does it matter? Once, twice, a hundred times - he still terrifies her. He hurt her today, too."

"What are you going to do?" asked Diana. Anthony looked down at her and she raised an eyebrow. "I know you better than you know yourself, Anthony. If someone is in trouble and you can help, then you will, no matter the cost. And if you can't… well, you tear yourself apart over it."

Her brother opened his mouth to argue, and then closed it, nodding his acceptance. "You're right, of course. If Edith had a more stable position, I'm convinced Gregson wouldn't have a chance."

Diana blinked. "Oh, darling, you _didn't_…"

"Didn't what?" interrupted Archie, much bemused.

Diana sighed, exasperated. "Oh, Archie, _do_ keep up! He proposed to her." She turned sharp eyes on Anthony. "Didn't you?"

He coughed. "Yes."

Diana shook her head. "Oh, my dear boy. It must have been so terribly awkward when she refused you."

Anthony took a sip from his cocktail, avoiding her eye. "What makes you think she refused me, Di?"

"Well, she's a Crawley," Diana replied, as though stating the glaringly obvious. "She's far too proud and honourable to allow anyone else to help her out of her difficulties. They all are."

"True. But you haven't seen her with her little girl, Diana - she worships the ground that child walks on. If it had been for her own sake alone, she would have refused me quick as a shot. As it is… she accepted. For Elinor's sake."

"Good grief." Diana looked up at him. "Dear boy, it's going to be terribly difficult for you, isn't it?"

"Oh, Diana, why should it be?" asked Archie, heartily. "Congratulations, dear fellow. I'm sure we hope you'll both be very happy." Then, nudging his wife, he added, "Don't we, Di?"

Diana stood up, huffing. "Well, actually, I'm not at all sure that Anthony isn't making a mistake."

Archie pinched the bridge of his nose. "Darling, Lady Edith, from what I can remember, is a charming young creature. Anthony needs someone to look after him - sorry, old man, but loneliness doesn't suit you. Why can't you just accept that there's every possibility of them both being very happy, Di?"

Diana had her hands on her hips by now - always a bad sign, in Anthony's experience. "Because Anthony's still in love with her, and if he is half the man I know him to be, he will have made it perfectly clear that he expects none of the usual marital rights. He won't even have asked her to be faithful to him." She looked at Anthony again. "That's right, isn't it?"

He nodded. "Yes. What else could I do? If I had offered for her on any other terms, I'd have become the sort of man I've spent most of my life despising. She's vulnerable - she needs help. I promised that I'd stand by her, that's all."

For a moment, there was silence, Diana watching Anthony, Anthony watching Diana, and Archie inspecting his fingernails as he waited for his wife to come around to her brother's point of view. She would, of course. Diana adored Anthony and had been his fierce defender all through their adult lives, but she respected his judgement all the same. At last, Diana flushed and adjusted her earrings almost angrily. "Of course." She nodded firmly. "What do you need me to do?"

Both men breathed a silent sigh of relief. Anthony ran a hand through his hair. "Smooth the way among our acquaintances, I suppose. And… offer Edith your support. She needs friends."

"Whatever you wish, my dear. The wedding will be soon, I take it?"

"Next week, if we can arrange it, and if Edith agrees with the plans I've set in motion. Thank you, Di."

"Don't mention it."


End file.
